Holting Back
by RSteele82
Summary: (Canon) It's been a dozen years since a mysterious stranger assumed the role of Laura Holt's fictitious boss. Remington and Laura are married, raising their children while running a thriving Agency. When a figure from Laura's past arrives, will her faith in the life she and Remington have built fall to tatters?
1. Prologue

_A/N: It feels like it's been a year since I've written Canon. I know it hasn't been… But I have missed it, regardless._

* * *

 ** _The Canon Series_**

 ** _It's been a dozen years since a mysterious stranger assumed the role of Laura Holt's fictitious boss. Remington and Laura are married, raising their children while running a thriving Agency. When a figure from Laura's past arrives, will her faith in the life she and Remington have built fall to tatters?_**

 ** _For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:_**

 ** _Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On_**  
 ** _Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Forsaken_**  
 ** _Steele Mending_**  
 ** _Steele Working out the Details_**  
 ** _Steele Settling In_**  
 ** _Steele Finding Comfort_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To Christmas_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To The Holidays_**  
 ** _Holting on to the Moments_**  
 ** _Steele Cold Relief_**  
 ** _Steele Cloned_**  
 ** _Steele Hurdling Obstacles_**  
 ** _Steeling the Big Apple_**  
 ** _Steele Dying to Get it Right_**  
 ** _Holting Steele - Part 1 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Be Steele My Heart – Part 2 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Steele Pursued – Part 1 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Tested – Part 2 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Thankful_** _ **  
**_ ** _Down the Rabbit Holt_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele in Wonderland_** _ **  
**_ ** _Expanding Steele – Part 1 of the His Holt World Series_** _ **  
**_ ** _His Holt World – Part 2 of the His Holt World Series  
Holting Back_**

 ** _Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I_** ** _love to write._**

* * *

Prologue

 _July 4,1982_

"Josh," the attractive _,_ willowy brunette called to her husband, "A little help here would be awesome."

" _I gotta get the stroller then I'll be right there, Barbie," he called back._

" _Stroller?" she questioned as she grabbed the arm of her three-year-old daughter before the child could dart for the beach without them. "Lynnee, not yet," she scolded, enunciating the last word. "Wait for us to get Katie and Bubby from the van then we'll go down together." The little girl stuck out a lip, unhappily, but did as she was told. "We don't need the stroller, Josh," she resumed the shouting conversation with her husband, who was still rummaging through their battered, old Volkswagen Beetle van. The couple could have afforded a new vehicle years ago, but neither was willing to relinquish the memories they'd created in that van as they'd indulged in the Hippie scenes of Haight-Asbury and San Francisco. "We can't push the stroller in the sand, Joshy will weigh it down to much."_

" _What will he use for nap then?" he questioned, poking his head into sight. She took a moment to admire her husband's Adonis like looks: Tall, broad, blonde and golden tan. It's no wonder we have three kids, she mused._

" _If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't believe you'd ever followed the wind wherever it took you," she teased. "We'll lay him on a blanket under the umbrella. He's barely six-months-old, so it's not as if he's gonna run off," she reminded. Grunting his agreement, his head disappeared again._

" _Cooler, diaper bag, towels, blanket…" he ticked off as he dropped the items in the large-wheeled wagon._

" _My bag, sand toys for the girls," she added as she removed one-year-old Katie from the van. "Lynnee, hold your sister's hand please."_

" _I wanna go play," Lynnee whined._

" _Not until we're all ready. Now take your sister's hand," Barbie ordered, her growing exasperation with the three-year-old threading through her voice._

 _That little lip protruded further and was accompanied by a scowl, but once again, she obeyed. Where did my happy girl go? Barb wondered. They'd sailed through the alleged terrible two's, her little 'mini me's' sunny disposition never wavering. Then, BAM! – two months ago a surly doppelganger had take her daughter's place. "No," "I don't wanna," and "I don't like," were Lynnee's favored words, and stomps of the feet, protruding lip and epic tantrums had become the new norm. Barb rubbed at her neck. If Lynnee persisted in her current mood, it would ruin the day for them all._

" _Ready?" Josh asked from where he now stood next to her, wagon handle grasped in his hand. She shook herself from her thoughts._

" _Let me grab Joshy."_

 _The fivesome had barely stepped upon the sand when Lynnee dropped her sister's hand and began to run towards the water._

" _Lynn Marie Jefferson," Barb called in her best, no-nonsense mom voice, "Stop where you are and come back here!" Lynnee stopped then turned around, crossing her arms, that same frown and protruding lip remaining in full bloom._

" _I don't wanna!" There was the familiar stomp of the foot. "I wanna swim!"_

 _Catching his wife's eye, Josh nodded his head towards the lifeguard stand where a wood plaque announced 'Riptide. Swim at your own risk.' Barb's shoulders slumped in dismay. Perfect. They'd do no more than dip their toes in the water on this day, something guaranteed to set off their petulant progeny._

" _Either come back and take your sister's hand, or we'll all go back to the van and leave," Barb warned. Lynnee pulled her lower lip into her mouth and stomped back to her sister, grabbing her hand roughly._

" _No, no, Lynnee," twenty-three-month old Katie protested the manhandling._

" _Come on," Lynnee barked, tugging her sister forward._

 _Barb's earlier amusement at how Josh and she had come to be the parents of three evaporated, as she slipped into a melancholy mood._

 _How did we get here? She questioned for the thousandth time since Joshy was born._

 _She and Joshua had met in August of '69, at Woodstock, of all places – although she doubted anyone would believe that now. She had been a twenty-four-year-old secretary, exhausted by the confines of her utterly pedantic life of secretary by day, wanna-be flower child by night. Oh, she'd longed for a life where she would wander at will, relying on a stroke of fate and the community to see her most basic needs met. She'd wanted sunshine and sand…_

 _And above all else, she'd wanted to be… free._

 _Unmarried, unencumbered by children, her life was hers to live… if only she hadn't been so afraid. Then, while thoroughly stoned on some righteous weed, she'd met Josh._

 _Twenty-six-years-old, and equally free of anything except the constraints he placed on himself, the Harvard trained financial advisor was as weary as she with his life. They'd toked on joints, drank and talked all through the night, then the next day, sharing with one another the dreams all the people around them seemed to find absurd._

 _By the conclusion of the fourth day, they'd resolved to make those dreams a reality…_

 _And they had._

 _They'd quit their jobs the next day, had pooled their savings, then had used a fair amount of those funds to a new van. They'd hit the road towards California, seeing the country as they drove._

 _For eight years, they'd lived as nomads, pandering on the streets here, living in a commune there. They' been part of the 'culture,' living it, breathing it, up and down the coast of California. They'd visited Mexico on more than one occasion, packing the compartments of the van with enough weed to keep the commune stone for two months…_

 _Then they'd taken another trip and reloaded._

 _A smile played on her lips. They'd even made it to Hawaii on one occasion, sleeping on the beach of a night. It had been a truly good life, one without demands – other than the ones they'd chosen._

 _Then, they'd both heard it: That tick-tick-tick of time, of her biological clock. She was thirty-two, nearly thirty-three, and if they wanted children – and they did – time was running short. The decision to go forth and multiply had ended their freedom, for their aimless wanderings… or the commune… was no life for a child, at least in their eyes._

 _It had been time to grow up._

 _It had taken no time, with his pedigree, to secure another financial advising position. She'd spent two years studying interior design. Then, at thirty-five, she'd had Lynnee, Katie and Joshy had arriving in rapid succession. Thus, at thirty-eight and forty-years-old, respectively, she and Josh had found themselves with three children under four and living the lines of upwardly mobile professionals: A respectable home in Santa Monica, both working professional jobs and raising a family. All they needed was a cat and a dog to become the prototypical nuclear family._

 _Everything they'd once rejected, they now were._

 _She'd been delirious with joy when Lynnee was born. She'd come into the world squalling, her tiny hands fisted, arms flailing. She and Josh had listened for months as friends and seasoned parents forewarned of the months of sleepless nights ahead; of colic and constipation; of the endless hours of screaming that accompanied teething. Not a single one of those things had come to fruition. Not with Lynnee. She had been the perfect baby._

 _An anomaly, their friends had forewarned. Was it? They'd pondered that thought constantly after discovering when Lynnee was four-months-old that number two was on the way. If their sweet daughter had been an outlier from the infant norm, then they'd twice been the exception to the rule, for when Katie had come along, they'd found her to be the most content of babies, perfectly happy to coo while observing the world around her._

 _Their perfect little family had been created. Two. The magic number. For fourteen months, they'd lived in utter bliss. It had taken a trip to the past to turn their perfect world upside down. A Grateful Dead concert with old friends. A little hash. A whole lot of pot. All of it followed by too much alcohol…_

 _A diaphragm forgotten._

 _And number three was on the way, upsetting the perfect balance they'd managed to achieve. At least, that was how Barb had seen it. Unlike her prior two pregnancies, Joshy's had taken a toll. By the time he arrived, she'd been exhausted for months and her emotions were thoroughly frayed. The 'baby blues,' her mother liked to call it._

 _Barb had another name for whatever had sank its claws into her psyche: Hell._

 _Their lucky streak had ended with Joshy. From the beginning, he'd sleep for only a few hours at a time. He'd refused the breast. He'd eat, only to regurgitate half his stomach contents at a time. He was often in pain, drawing up his legs to a hardened tummy, his tiny fists pumping at the air. He'd been just shy of five-months-old when he'd been diagnosed with reflux and was prescribed medication. And since? He'd become a different child._

 _And Barb had begun to feel more like herself again. She could only hope her months of struggle hadn't been felt too keenly by the children._

 _Although Lynnee's newfound, sullen disposition had made her question if it had._

" _Hon, is this good?" Josh's question drew her from her thoughts and she scanned the area around them: Not too close to the water and not too far. The area gave them some breathing space – not much, but some – from those around them._

" _It's perfect," she replied. She waited until he spread out the blanket then sat Joshy upon it, so she could help unload the wagon and set up 'camp'._

" _What is it?" she inquired, when Josh smacked a palm against his forehead._

" _I forgot the umbrella," he sighed. "I'll be right back." With that she watched him jog away. Almost immediately, Katie began to whine and tug at Barb's cover up._

" _Juice!" she insisted. Barb nodded her head and fished a cup from her bag, along with a container of juice from the cooler._

" _I wanna go swim!" Lynnee demanded._

" _Not right now, Lynnee. Maybe in a little while." She refocused on Katie. "Katie, have a seat on the—"_

" _I wanna go swim!" Lynnee screeched, loud enough to draw several pairs of eyes to them._

" _I_ _said_ _maybe in a little while," Barb repeated through clenched teeth, with a patently false smile plastered on her face for the benefit of those watching. "Katie, sit down. Here's—"_

" _I wanna go swim!" Lynnee wailed, stomping her feet as her eyes welled up and she prepared to pitch a full blown fit. Why can't she save these for Josh? Barb silently lamented. Face infusing with color as the scene drew more spectators, out of desperation she grabbed a pail and shovel, shoving them at her oldest daughter._

" _Go play," she ordered. "Stay where I can see you and don't go near the water."_

 _Sniffling, Lynnee shuffled away, plopping down on the sand some twenty feet from the water under Barb's watchful eyes. Satisfied Lynnee was occupied for now, Barb turned her attention back to her two youngest children while setting out the family's lunch._

" _Where's Lynnee?" Josh asked upon his return. Looking up, Barb pointed to where their three-year-old was filling her pail with sand._

" _Josh, I swear, there are days I don't know how much more I can take of her tantrums. Why doesn't she ever act this way with you?" she asked, voicing aloud her earlier thought, honestly not expecting a reply. "Lynnee, time for lunch," she called._

 _The still put-out child turned to scowl at her mother._

" _Let her play," Josh advised. "She'll eat when she's hungry." With a huff of irritation, Barb tossed Lynnee's sandwich back into the cooler._

" _You're too easy on her," she accused. "A little support for me would be nice."_

" _It's nothing more than a phase, hon," he countered. "It will run its course and then she'll be her normal, happy self." Barb shook her head. He'd missed her point completely, but she chose to let it go rather than spoil their day._

 _When their lunch was nearly complete, Katie had begun to visually squirm where she sat._

" _Potty," she pled._

" _Can you take her while I give Joshy his bottle?" Barb requested._

" _Sure," he agreed, getting to his feet. "Why don't I grab us some ice cream while I'm at it? Want me to take Lynnee?"_

" _That sounds good," Barb agreed, but couldn't help adding, "Weren't you the one who said she'd come when she was hungry?"_

" _Vanilla or chocolate?" he questioned, choosing not to take the bait._

" _Chocolate."_

 _As Josh walked away, Barb turned her attention to the baby. There was no 'just' giving Joshy a bottle, as first he had to have his meds. Then there were the breaks between each ounce, to allow his belly to rest. By the time the bottle was finished, thanks to the slight sedative effect of the medication (that she didn't particularly care for) Joshy would fall sound to sleep._

 _Her eyes flickered to Lynnee where the child continued to play in the sand, back to her mother. Medication given, she cradled Joshy in her lap and eased the nipple between his lips._

 _Would Lynnee's fits subside? Was it just a phase? Or had her own struggles with those so-called 'baby blues' damaged her child in some way? The thought that might be the case left guilt washing over her._

 _She missed the little girl Lynnee had been only a couple, short months ago. The child who spun in circles until she'd topple to the ground. The child who frequently danced around the living room with abandon, dancing for no other reason than she was joyous. The child who roamed the house singing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and who loved to make her younger siblings laugh._

 _Had she, Barb, said 'keep it down' or snapped 'not right now' one time too many? Had Lynnee felt isolated unappreciated, alone, a nuisance? That was her greatest fear. An unspoken one she was terrified if she voiced to Josh, he'd turn an accusatory eye on her and tell her she'd irrevocably broken their daughter in some way. The thought of that made her stomach flip-flop._

 _Glancing down, she saw Joshy had fallen asleep, his bottle nearly empty. Slowly, carefully, she lay the baby down on the blanket then angled the umbrella to shade him._

" _One chocolate cone," Josh announced waving the cold, sweet treat under his wife's nose. Smiling up at him, she took the offered cone._

" _Thanks," she replied, as she noted the ice cream dripping down her youngest daughter's fingers. Licking her own cone before it, too, could drip, she called Katie over to her. "Come here, let's get you cleaned up a little." Katie began to prepared to wail, then calmed when she realized her mother wasn't going to take the ice cream from her, but would work around it._

" _I got Lynnee vanilla," Josh informed Barb, as he eyes roamed the beach. "Where is she?"_

" _You took her with you," she replied, with a smile. His teasing nature had always been one of his biggest draws for her. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"_

" _What are you talking about? You told me to leave her with you." Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, alarm bells were beginning to sound. She refused to acknowledge them._

" _I get it. A little hide-n-seek with Mom?"_

 _"Barb!" Josh barked her name with finality. "I didn't take her with me. I offered."_

" _And I said sound's good," she shot back. Those bells grew louder, clacked harsher. A trickle of fear raced up her spine, goosebumps spreading across her skin._

" _To the ice cream!" he retorted. "You reminded me I'd said she'd join us when she was hungry!"_

 _Barb spun around on her knees, eyes falling on the abandoned pail and shovel in the sand. No. No-no-no-no-no._

" _You took her," she insisted, lunging to her feet. "You took her with you," she repeated, her voice growing shrill._

 _The memory of Lynnee's back to her paraded across her mind. She took two quick steps forward, spun, searched the mobs of people._

" _She couldn't have gone far, she couldn't have," she babbled, not believing it herself. How many times had she people said a child can disappear in the blink of an eye, if something caught their imaginations. No. No-no-no-no-no. "You were only gone a minute."_

" _I was gone at least twenty," he contradicted. "Are you telling me you haven't seen her in twenty minutes?" he demanded to know, grasping her shoulders. She pulled away from him and twirled around._

" _I looked. I looked. She was there. Playing with her back to me." Joshy's bottle. She'd checked on Lynnee as she gave the baby his medicine. Had she looked in on her daughter again since? Oh god. Lynnee-Lynnee-Lynnee. The scream was ripped from her throat. "Lynn-ee!"_

 _She ran ten feet to the south then twenty to the north, then to the sand pail, screaming her daughter's name. Scooping up the pail, she cradled it in her arms and ran to the group of two women and two men, seating on towels close to the blanket where Katie sat and Joshy slept._

" _Please, can you watch the children?" she begged. "My daughter's run off." She didn't wait for a reply, whirling away and running down the beach._

" _Lynnee! Lynn-ee!" she called. "It's time to stop hiding. You've won the game… Lynnee!" Where-are-you-Where-are-you-Where-are-you._

 _She looked up, blindly, when a hand grabbed her arm_

" _You don't think she—" Josh's eyes flickered towards the waves, unable to complete the thought. Her eyes followed his to the water._

" _No. No! She wouldn't have!" she denied. Would she? "We told her not to." And idea came to her and her face lit with hope. "The bathroom. Maybe she had to go…" He released her arms, abruptly._

" _I'll go check and I'll notify the lifeguard on my way." He ran in the direction of the lifeguard stand. She didn't watch his departure, turning and running down the beach again._

" _Please," she begged at the first group of people she came upon, "Have you seen my daughter? She's three-years-old, about this tall…" she indicated with her hand "…and wearing a red swimsuit with ruffles on its bottom."_

 _All heads shook in the negative. She ran to the next group, while yelling her daughter's name._

 _She stumbled to a stop, addressing the people._

" _Please, have you seen my daughter? Her name's Lynnee and she's three-years-old…"_

* * *

 _LA Times  
July 6, 1982_

 _CHILD DROWNS ON FOURTH OF JULY_

 _Tragedy struck on the birthday of our country when three-year-old Lynn Marie Jefferson drowned after being caught in the rip currents prevalent along the shores of Santa Monica over the holiday._

 _Her devastated parents, Joshua and Barbara Jefferson, had briefly taken their eyes off the child when she wandered off…_


	2. Chapter 1: Reflections - Laura

Chapter 1: Reflections - Laura

 _September 24, 1994_

It was a beautiful fall day in Los Angeles, more specifically in Redondo Beach where Casa Malaga, the Steele's home for the last three-and-a-half years, was located. Their five bedroom, six bath Spanish style house with two guess bungalows was nestled in a private cove, with no neighbors abutting them. Perched directly on the beach, the house provided the water to which both Laura and Remington were drawn, while offering not only a good deal of privacy but allowing a certain number of security options for their family as well.

And in their line of work… in never knowing who might next have the detective duo in their sites… keeping their family safe was of paramount concern.

Clutching a cup of hot coffee in her hands, Laura stretched out on an Adirondack chair on the back deck of their home, her eyes focused on the surf ahead and below. She cherished her Saturday mornings when Remington would rise early, get all three children dressed, flip on the coffee maker for her, then the brood of four would be off for Saturday morning errands, leaving her to herself in the house. While he'd begun the tradition of errands with the kids when Livvie was just an infant – and immensely enjoyed the time alone with the children – she'd long ago suspected these mornings were also done with a bit of tit-for-tat in mind on his part: She handled transporting the girls to their activities on weekday afternoons, providing him some downtime so he, in turn, offered some solitary time for her.

Not that he'd ever admit as much. He'd see an admission of such as giving her one up on him. Even after eight years of marriage, they still demanded equal footing.

Eight years…

Eight years!

Their personal relationship had sputtered along for nearly four years, each step forward seemingly followed by two steps back. Those four years, when one would step close only for the other to back away – had seemed… interminable. The last eight years, on the other hand, had seemed to fly right by.

Where _had_ time gone? It was a question she often ruminated on, for it felt as though she had merely blinked and suddenly the girls were in second grade and Holt was beginning preschool.

Olivia- The Daddy's Girl, who still believed her father had hung the stars in the heavens just for her, would turn seven-years-old in a little over a month. Remington had once fervently wished for a daughter just like Laura, right down to the very last freckle, had only seen half of that wish come to fruition. With her raven hair, cobalt eyes, and full lips, Livvie was the female version of Remington in all respects but one: She still maintained her petite stature. Whether that would one day change, who knew?

But inside, where it truly mattered, she was all Laura, and then some: Smart, determined, quick witted, curious, with uncompromising loyalty… hard headed with the occasional display of temper. She'd tried to warn him, she really had, to be careful what he wished for, and he'd gotten precisely that, a fact he occasionally lamented.

But there were two aspects of Livvie's personality that were pure him: Her ability to charm the socks off anyone when the mood struck or occasion demanded… and that she knew without equivocation she was able to do precisely that.

Seven-year-old Sophie was – no need to pretend otherwise – Laura's and Laura's alone. Not that she didn't love her Da, for she did, quite deeply. No man would ever compare to her father – not for her. But in the perilous days after her arrival in the Steele's life, she and Laura had forged a bond of… well… steel.

Of the three children, it was Sophie who'd undergone the most dramatic transformation across the last three-and-a-half-years… not withstanding Holt's obvious growth from infant to preschooler. She'd arrived on the Steele's doorstep – quite literally – at three-years-old, the lone witness of the brutal murder of her mother…

Her mother being Clarissa Jensen – Lady of the evening (or love broker as she preferred to be called), former client… and the woman Remington had once attempted to marry in order to subvert the INS's intention to deport him.

To say Sophie had simply been traumatized by witnessing the attack upon her mother would have been a gross understatement, for years prior to that event, Sophie has been regularly reminded by her father, Gabriel Castoro, that he'd never wanted her and as far as he was considered, she was nothing but a nuisance.

A disposable one, at that, Laura frowned.

Castoro was not only the Deputy Commissioner of the LAPD, but he'd also run one of the largest criminal syndicates LA had ever seen. It was on his orders that Clarissa was murdered. Then, later, he'd ordered a hit on the Steele's and his own child, determined to silence them all.

Tall, slim, with strawberry blonde hair and emerald green eyes, the beautiful little girl had been nearly completely mute when she'd come to the Steele's. She hadn't known whom to trust… _if_ she could trust anyone at all –particularly men – despite Clarissa's best efforts to shield Sophie from her father's cruelty, which wasn't limited to only words. In many ways, Sophie's wariness, her feeling of being unworthy, made Laura think of Remington: Had he felt these very same things as a child, as he was being bounced from home-to-home?

It had been heart wrenching to watch Sophie try to find her way, and at times they'd been left fearing she never would. But, much as Marcos had predicted, the past and her fears were powerless against the unrelenting constancy of the Steele's – and their extended families – deeds. When she was frightened, there was a pair of willing arms always prepared to offer her shelter in their warm embrace. When she felt lost, there was a hand waiting to guide her way. When she questioned her value, her place in this new family, she was showered with love and approval. And like the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly, Sophie had transformed from Sophia Alexis Jensen – terrified, traumatized and withdrawn child – into Sophia Alexis Jensen Steele – joyous, secure and confident little girl.

Last, but not least, there was Holt, Remington's little doppelganger in every way – both inside and out. From his birth, Holt had been a remarkably placid, undemanding infant and that hadn't changed as he'd grown into a preschooler. He was bright, gregarious, naturally optimistic, almost always of good humor, unwaveringly curious and prone to a quick smile. He'd sailed through the terrible twos without so much as a single stomp of a foot. He loved Laura and Remington wholly and equally, and, unlike the girls, showed favoritism toward neither, utterly content with whoever's company he found himself in.

A smile played on her lips. God, she loved watching Remington and Holt together. It was as though she was watching past and present collide: Remington now and Remington as he might have been as a child, had life not dealt him the hand that it had. There were times that watching the two of them together simply took her breath away: Watching Remington patiently showing his son how to kick a 'football' in the yard; seeing Holt lounging in his father's lap as they watched a movie; watching Holt sitting on the island, conversing avidly with Remington as the latter prepared the evening's meal. Regret would tug at her heart, in moments like those, that Remington had never had the opportunity to share moments similar to those with his own father when he was a child.

As could sometimes be the case on quiet mornings, such as these, reflections on her children saw her thoughts eventually meandering to consider their father.

And what an incredible father Remington had turned out to be. From the time they cared for little Caruso, she'd suspected he'd make a good father one day. That he'd be spectacular? She could honestly say she hadn't expected it. Grouse, though he might, from time-to-time, one could never question what his children meant to him. He glowed with pride when they appeared as a family in public, and at home the children's waking hours were devoted to them.

But those hours after the children went to sleep? Those hours were for the two of them. They'd both abided faithfully to their pledge, before Olivia came along, that they – Laura and Remington as a couple – had to come first. It was their relationship that would set the tone for the household, that would determine the success of their family… and it was their relationship that their children would later look upon as an example of for their own.

Their marriage had come upon troubled times right after Holt was born, she reflected. Felicia's reappearance in Remington's life – along with a repeat performance of her blackmailing him – coupled with Laura's bout of post partum depression had tested their relationship to its breaking point. A creative kidnapping orchestrated by Mildred, Bernice and Melina, had left them stranded, literally, on a deserted island, forcing them to tackle their issues head on: Each misunderstanding clarified, every injury they'd done one another addressed. Their marriage had not only survived, but had strengthened.

They had a good marriage, a sound one, and unlike those early years of their perpetually frustrating romance, she knew without question that Remington Chalmers Steele loved her with every single fiber of his being.

But old habits were hard to break, and when significant milestones approached, she'd often find herself wary, some small part of her worrying if this was it: The point at which this life he'd built no longer appealed to him and he walked away.

1992 had been a particularly trying time for her, those doubts clamoring for her attention. In honor of Remington's fortieth birthday, she'd borrowed a move from football: the screen play. She'd fully involved him in his party plans – or so it had seemed – consulting with him on the guest list, the location (White Oak Country Club), date, time, menu. And while he'd looked long, she'd thrown short, scheduling the celebration a week earlier – four days prior to his birthday, as opposed to three days after… at L'Orange, not the Country Club. It had been just another Saturday 'date night', as far as he'd known, with a stop by the office on the way, so that she could pick up a 'crucial file.'

He'd been so shocked by the rollicking "surprise" shouted on his arrival, that he'd stumbled a step backwards, then looking around had rubbed a hand over his mouth in disbelief. The entire Androkus clan had traveled from Oia to celebrate the occasion, while Thomas and Catherine had set aside duties in England to do the same. Even Murphy and Sherry had made the trip up from Denver. The stunned look he'd bestowed upon Laura when he spied Livvie, Sophie and Holt in their special occasion best, had been priceless.

And only five weeks later, already silently fretting that Remington might find himself in a 'midlife crisis,' another big occasion arrived: The decade mark of Remington's arrival in Laura's life. When it came to the man who'd once vowed to never bind himself to one place or one person, the heralding of two such significant occasions coming so closely together, seemed, in her eyes, to be the perfect storm. She'd believed she had hidden her increasing anxiety from Remington well until he'd joined her on the deck one evening. Stepping behind her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his cheek against her side of her head.

"I won't hazard a guess as to what is you've been masticating upon these last weeks," he murmured, "But whatever it is, don't borrow trouble where none exists, love." The endearment sent a shiver up her spine, and unconsciously she leaned into him as she closed her eyes.

It had been exactly what she'd needed to hear, even if he hadn't known what he'd said.

In the early part of their marriage, they had tried any number endearments for one another. A teasing 'darling' had earned her the cold shoulder, the word one tied to any number of women who'd manipulated, blackmailed… betrayed to him. He'd called her babe, and while the term hadn't, surprisingly, annoyed her, it had never really taken hold. She taken to calling him 'Rem,' but it had never really suited him – he was Remington, and she hadn't missed the warmth in his eyes when she'd increasingly – then permanently – had referred to him as such. 'Love' had been the term he was most inclined to use towards her – or the variation of 'my love' when he was feeling particularly tender - while from her 'sweetheart' had been the most suiting, appealing to the romantic in him with an occasional, teasing 'big guy' – and she wasn't referring to _only_ his significantly taller stature - tossed in when she was feeling a bit playful.

As they'd grown in their marriage, even those three favored terms had become less used, not because they felt less connected to them, but more. The endearments were implied in their absent caresses of the other's shoulder, hand, arm or back. Thus, when they were used, they meant so much more.

She laughed silently to herself, unknowingly nodding her head at the same time.

And who needed those small endearments, when one was married to an Irishman prone to making proclamations in Gaelic when they made love? Proclamations she'd learned to interpret across the years.

She rubbed at her arms as a shiver of pure pleasure scattered goosebumps over her arms.

After that evening on the deck, those dogged old fears stayed at bay for more than half a year. Then, their anniversary arrived, and with it, yet another one of those mile markers: The seven year itch. This time, she'd admirably managed to hide her trepidation from Remington, although her success might have had more to do with its brevity than her acting skills, she admitted to herself ruefully.

They'd celebrated their anniversary in Oia at the Androkus family home where they'd wed, as they had every year since they'd married. The large family home was filled to capacity, as it often was, with family members and friends. The terrace where they'd exchanged vows was swathed in candlelight from candelabras adorning tabled bedecked with white table clothes and standing lamps scattered around the edge of the terrace. They danced together under twinkling stars while light sparkled off the Aegean below.

"Seven years," Remington mused, "We'll be celebrating our silver anniversary before you know it, perhaps even with a grandchild or two toddling about or feet." It had been precisely what she'd needed to hear to set her worries aside, for a man who was growing discontent would not be daydreaming of the grandchildren they'd have eighteen years in the future. She slid her hands over his shoulders, then clasped them behind his neck, a smile playing on her lips and merriment in her eyes.

"Certainly an improvement over what you'd once feared," she reminded.

* * *

" _ **At the rate we're going, we'll be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary by the time we consummate this relationship."**_

* * *

Cocking his head to the side, brows furrowed, he dug through his mind for the point she was referencing. When he found it, a wide smile lit his face.

"Mmmm, yes, significantly so," he agreed. As his smile faded, intense blue eyes met hers. "But rest assured, we _will_ be consummating this marriage on our silver anniversary." Her eyes sparkled with humor.

"I believe that ship sailed a little over seven years ago, unless, of course, you've discovered a way to turn back time," she teased.

"No need to," he quickly replied, while reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need only to marry you all over again." Her lips twitched with a suppressed smile, as she realized he had romance on his mind.

"Are you saying there's a divorce in our future, Mr. Steele?" A corner of his mouth tipped upwards, and he gave her a look that suggested she's taken leave of her senses.

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he dismissed with amusement, "I've won't be letting you go so easily." The fingers of his hand whispered over the small of her back. "A reaffirmation of our vows, followed by a reception." He waggled his brows at her. "Then the honeymoon." She had to admit, he'd stirred her own romantic nature and found the suggestion held a great deal of appeal.

"You'd better be careful," she warned. "I might hold you to that."

"See to it that you do," had come his quick reply.

Fourteen month later, she was no less enchanted with the idea.

A smile on her face, she rose from the chair and went inside. A quick refill of her coffee for energy, and she gathered together cleaning supplies for her Saturday morning tradition: Dusting and vacuuming the first floor of the house before Remington and the children returned home.

They had a good life… a solid life, she reflected. A life she couldn't have imagined in her grandest fantasies. But then again, unlike him, she hadn't done a lot of daydreaming about the future in those years of their convoluted courtship.

* * *

 _ **"Do you ever have dreams, Laura? About us? About our lives?"**_

 _ **"I suppose. Sometimes."**_

* * *

In truth, it was difficult to dream of a future when you were never quite sure if there would be a tomorrow, let alone a next year. Hell, a goodly portion of those first years, it didn't seem wise to fantasize about their dinner plans…

* * *

 _ **"Do you honestly believe that all the time we've spent together means so little to me, eh?"**_

 _ **"How can I answer that when I have no idea what came before? Or what you're feeling now?**_

* * *

It was only in the last handful of years that she'd found herself imagining six months, a year… two even.. down the line. So what did it say about her… them… that she was now envisioning eighteen years in the future even as those olds fears of waking and finding him gone still plagued her from time-to-time?

Something good, that much she was certain of. Her hand paused where she was dusting the mantle. And frightening, in a way, reminded that nagging voice. Dreaming of the future, the possibilities of _that future_ , meant relying on a good deal of optimism and _faith,_ two things she didn't come by naturally… and two things that would make the fall all the more painful, should the worst come to pass.

Just as his habit of bending rules, acting on impulse, could be contagious, so could be his vision of their lives together, especially when she looked at where they were now, much of it by his design. A beautiful home on a private beach that accommodated the interests and _demands_ of the family: Adjoining bedrooms for the girls; a playroom and large yard in which to play for the children; a gourmet kitchen and home theater for him; a home office and close proximity to the Agency for her; guest homes for the nanny and Melina; and a large terrace and pool, replete with hammocks and outdoor kitchen for the entire family.

And Casa Malaga wasn't their only home. There was the house in Oia and their two homes in London where they stayed during their annual June Pilgrimage between Ireland, England and Greece. There was Daniel's villa in Theoule-Sur-Mer, where the family vacationed each year during Spring Break – also Remington's idea. They had the house in Vail, where each year the Steele's spent a week first with the Henderson's, then with the Piper's, giving the children their fill of snow play while Laura and Remington enjoyed a bit of skiing. And lastly, there was Ashford Castle, where they'd found a way to repair the hurt they'd afflicted on one another during a particularly difficult span of their relationship… and had, at long last, opened their hearts fully, dared to believe in love, and had finally consummated their relationship.

She laughed softly as she crossed the living room to the coffee table to dust.

Where their two, young, princess besotted daughters could feel like princesses for a week each year.

Yes, the number of homes in their portfolio was absolutely obscene, yet , as Remington had predicted, they had their benefits – which were put to a good deal of use. There was no need to make hotel reservations. The children always knew what to expect, as they arrived to the familiarity of home. When the family opted not to dine out, Remington could relax in his own kitchen as he prepared their meal. There were never complaints of 'too much noise' when the children were particularly rambunctious, as they never had to share walls with others…

And, when the Steele's were not in residence, they welcomed friends and family to utilize their properties for vacation. That, alone, had allowed Donald and Frances to realize their lifelong dreams of seeing more of the world than just the United States. With Danny and Mindy now in college and the financial demands of Laurie Beth still at home and the adoption of six-year-old Alejandro, such travel wouldn't be possible if not for the cost-free accommodations.

She couldn't help her smile, as she stepped into her home office to dust.

Donald and Frances were parents again. Inspired by Sophie – and with empty nest syndrome approaching too quickly for Frances's comfort – they'd decided to open their home and hearts to a child with no family to call their own. Two years ago, a little orphan had stolen their hearts. Alejandro – or Alex, as he preferred to be called – had lost both his parents and an older sister in a fire. With no known family members, he'd been made a ward of the Court. The adoption process had been lengthy, but last April, Alex had officially become a Piper.

Returning to the kitchen, Laura put away the cleaning supplies, then fetched the vacuum from the utility room. After plugging it in, she flicked on the stereo, tuning the radio to KROT. Tapping the on button the vacuum with her foot, she set aside her thoughts to dance and sing along with the radio…

"It's Friday night and the weekend's here  
I need to unwind, where's the party, Mr. DJ…"


	3. Chapter 2: Family Life

Chapter 2: Family Life

A wide smile lit Remington's face when he swung open the door to the house. Turning around, he held a finger up to his lips for the children's benefit.

"Let's surprise Mommy, eh?" he suggested in a conspiratorial voice.

Three heads bobbed up and down eagerly, and he could barely suppress his laughter as Olivia and Sophie walked across the house in an exaggerated tiptoe. Given the direction of the sound of the vacuum resonated from, Laura was currently the formal living room where she was singing along with the radio. Dropping the two bags of groceries he'd carried in onto the island in the kitchen, he then relieved the children of their burden of a light bag each. He pointed in the general direction of the stairs.

"Upstairs," he directed in a hushed voice. "Wash your hands and face, make your bed, then come back down and we'll begin breakfast. In the meantime, I'm going to give Mommy a bit of a surprise." He could only shake his head as the girls left a trail of giggles behind them.

He took the long route to the formal living room, where he might be able to sneak in without being seen. Patting himself on his back for his success, he leaned a shoulder against the wall, and watched as Laura simultaneously vacuumed, danced and sang.

" _Damn, I wish I was your lover  
I'll rock you till the daylight comes  
Make sure you are smiling and warm_

 _I am everything  
Tonight I'll be your mother—"_

He grimaced in distaste.

"What a disturbing notion," he drawled, chuckling when Laura yelped in surprise and spun around. With a roll of her eyes, she toe-tapped the power button on the vacuum.

"You know I hate it when you do that," she reprimanded. A very non-petulant smile lifted his lips.

"And you know how much I enjoy it," he countered. Which she did, she admitted. _You really have to start keeping track of time, Laura,_ she scolded silently. It was the second time this month he'd managed to sneak in on her. She itched to wipe the smug smile from his face.

"What exactly is disturbing?" she asked instead.

"She wishes to be his lover _and mother_?" He feigned a shudder, as he pushed off the wall and sauntered in her direction. "Yeesh." A pair of dimples flashed in his direction.

"You'd be surprised how many men want their significant other to mother them," she commented, as he slipped his arms around her waist.

"Mmmm, not this man," he dissented as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She widened her eyes, and looked up at him.

"No?" He shimmied closer, as he pursed his lips and slowly shook his head as the music played on.

" _There's a calm surrender to the rush of day  
When the head of a rolling world can be turned away…"_

"Mmm-mmm," he hummed, "I much prefer a partner as my lover." She followed with ease when he began to dance.

"Is that so?" She slid a hand from behind his neck stroke his shoulder and upper arm, as he cocked his head slightly to the side and listened to the lyrics of the song playing.

" _And can you feel the love tonight  
It is where we are  
It's enough for this wide eyed wanderer  
That we got this far…"_

"How very apropos," he mused aloud.

"No, _The Lion King,_ " she smirked. He gave her a woe begotten look.

"I know perfectly well what movie the song is from, Lau-ra," he chided. "We've seen it with the children at least a half dozen times now. I've never paid much attention to the words of the song."

" _There's a time for everyone if they only learn  
That the twisting kaleidoscope moves us all in turn  
There's a rhyme and reason to the wild outdoors  
When the heart of this star crossed voyager beats in time with yours…"_

"Remind you of someone?" He bobbled his head from side-to-side.

"There's a certain truth in it," he acknowledged with a tender smile. He leaned into kiss her, as they continued to sway in time to the music.

From behind them came a loud huff, followed by an accusatory, "You said you were going to surprise Mommy." Two steps turned them so they could both see Olivia, standing with a frown and arms crossed.

"And I _did_ surprise Mommy," Remington defended, lightly. She shook her head slowly and adamantly.

"That's not surprising," she argued. Unable to help herself, Laura dropped her forehead against his chest and laughed quietly. Livvie caught them in a clinch often, and wasn't shy about voicing her opinion. "That's kissing."

"Yes, it is," he didn't deny, then elaborated, "When I surprised Mommy, I scare her... then I kissed her to make her feel better." Laura's laughter grew louder, her shoulders shaking. Remington was answering as though Livvie were the parent, he the child – including the slight whine of self-defense. Later, they'd have to have a little talk about exactly that, but right now, she was enjoying his discomfort too much.

"Sophie and Holt are in the kitchen," she sighed, making certain he understood she didn't believe him for a second. With that, she turned and trounced off in that direction.

"I do believe I've just been issued my marching orders," he mused. Still laughing, she tipped back her head, her eyes glimmering with mirth.

"I believe you have," she agreed. With a quick touch of his lips to hers, he released her from his frame and stepped away.

"Why doing I feel like a tyke who's just had his ears boxed by his mother?" he mumbled, befuddled.

Her laughter followed him from the room.

* * *

"Lina, would you care to join us on the beach after breakfast?" Laura inquired.

The family had opted to eat breakfast out-of-doors, in tribute to the mild, fall day. Lina – Remington's 'sister,' seven years his junior – lived in one of the guest houses on the property, and often joined the family at their meals. It was family, after all, that had partly inspired her to move to Los Angeles from Oia. She grimaced at her sister-in-law.

"I would enjoy that, very much," she replied, "But I can only stay an hour or so. I agreed to an afternoon tennis match with Jacoby." Remington and Laura exchanged amused looks.

"Oh?" was Laura's simple reply.

"A tennis date, eh?" Remington smirked around a mouthful of egg. Lina's back straightened in pique.

"It is _not_ a date," she quickly denied with a glare.

"Mmmm, so you claim on the regular. The symphony on Wednesday evening. The gallery opening last Sunday—" Lina threw up her hands in protest.

"The man badgers me until I agree. If I didn't, we'd never get the first bit of work done!"

"Sounds familiar," Laura muttered.

"I never badgered," he protested himself now, "I was merely… persistent." Eyes sparkling with amusement and challenge, she lifted a pair of smug brows at him.

"The Charlotte Knight case…"

* * *

 _ **"Would you like to know what I think?"**_

 _ **"About the murder?"**_

 _ **"About you. You know what you are? A workaholic. That's what you are!"**_

 _ **"No? Really? Terrible vice, you oughta try it some time."**_

 _ **"It just drives you crazy that there are no mysteries to solve, no clues to… to ponder, no suspects to… uh… suspect!"**_

 _ **"Hah! Speak for yourself. I have a mystery to solve, I have clues to ponder, I have suspects to suspect!"**_

 _ **"Ho, yes indeed! Nothing frightens Laura Holt like having time on her hands. Or heaven forbid that she has a second to stop and think and feel, and perhaps, perhaps actually get to close to some of the people she works with!"**_

* * *

"Your brother was constantly trying to convince me to set everything to the side and run off with him to some exotic location," she shared with Lina. Remington frowned at his wife.

"If memory serves, you also believed we'd no case at one point," he rebutted.

* * *

 _ **"That doesn't change the fact that there was no motive for killing Mitchell Knight. All those people stood to lose by his death. Don't you see, you were right all along."**_

 _ **"Laura, I know there's a case here."**_

 _ **"Based on what? Based on this tape? OK, he was blocked, maybe they even hired someone else to write the third book, what does that prove?"**_

 _ **"It proves they didn't tell us everything. These people… these people are creating fictions, foisting frauds on the public, exploiting talented underlings for the aggrandizement of a figurehead who contributes nothing but a winning personality and good looks! Trust me Laura, it's my area."**_

 _ **"And that's why you think there's a case?"**_

 _ **"There's more than that, much more. I know that whoever wrote the third book, killed Mitchell Knight."**_

 _ **"How do you know that?"**_

 _ **"I can smell it!"**_

* * *

"Besides the point," she retorted, with a flick of her hand. "Elbowing his way into my cases…" He took offense at that.

"Elbowing _? Elbowing?!"_ She turned a pair of indicting brown eyes upon him. The heads of two little girls turned to look at their father, the conversation having caught their attention.

" _Elbowing_ ," she confirmed firmly.

"I _never—"_

"Meechum," she retorted.

* * *

 _ **"We start first thing in the morning."**_

 _ **"May I**_ _ **respectfully**_ _ **remind you, Mr. Steele, that your**_ _ **enormous**_ _ **responsibilities preclude any personal involvement-"**_

* * *

"In all fairness, Meechum insisted—"

"Invading my privacy at home, pawing through my belongings—" she continued as though he'd never spoken.

"Pawing? I _never—_ " Her eyes snapped to his face.

"White. Belts." she replied, succinctly.

* * *

 _ **"There are men's clothes in your bedroom closest. Men's toiletries in your bathroom."**_

 _ **"What are you talking about?"**_

 _ **"I'm talking about men's bikini underwear. I'm talking about a t-shirt… a t-shirt that says, 'Banker**_ s _**do it**_ _ **with interest'.**_ _ **Yuck.**_ _ **I'm talking about..."**_

* * *

With a puff of breath, he dropped his fork and flopped back in his chair in a most un-Remington like manner. Crossing his arms, his lower lip puffed out in a pout.

"Even you have to admit it was beyond shocking to realize you'd lived with a man—"

"Mr. Steele," she snapped in warning, but it was already too late.

"Mommy didn't live with you?" Livvie piped up. Remington's eyes flickered to the faces of two curious little girls, to Lina who sat staring at him wide-eyed, and then, with a wince, fell upon Laura whose scowl and pinched lips said it all. He tugged at his ear, nervously.

"Mommy was very young and lived with a friend," he punted and prayed.

"Oh." Livvie drew out the single syllable while shrugging her shoulders.

"My point is," Laura stepped back in, while giving her husband a 'we'll be discussing this later' look, "It took a long time for me to realize Xenos was lonely, and all that elbowing his way in, invading my privacy, _nagging_ me, was his way of asking me to open a door, to allow him in." A pair of soft brown eyes fell on him. "It hasn't always been easy," she snorted a laugh, "Far from it, at times, but I don't regret for an instant having done so." Remington pursed his lips at her in a kiss, blue eyes twinkling, and returned to his meal, as she turned her attention back to Melina. "All I'm saying is: Give the guy a chance."

"You do not understand," Melina huffed, "The man is arrogant, conceited, too handsome for his own good and _knows_ it, believes himself to be—"

"Have you _met_ your brother?" Laura laughed in disbelief.

"Thank you, love," said man informed her, drily.

"If the shoe fits," she shot back.

"You seemed to enjoy the bloke's attention a few nights back, at least from where I was sitting," Remington noted. Lina reared up in affront.

"I have nev—" she shook off the idea of lying, given it was clear she'd been caught dead to rights and decided on another path. "You were _spying_ on me, Xen?" His fork paused midway to his mouth.

"I wasn't spying," he answered. Taking a bite of sausage, he waved the fork at her. "I was sitting on the terrace – minding my business, might I add – while enjoying a beautiful evening and fine glass of port, when Jacoby escorted you to the door." He laughed again, in that irritating way only brothers can do. "From where I sat, you seemed a rather… enthusiastic… recipient of his amorous intentions." His smile widened when Melina blushed to the roots of her hair then abruptly stood and picked up her plate.

"If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll go dress for the beach." Picking up her plate, she stalked towards the French doors.

"Marcos and Elena would be appalled by your display of temper, Lina," he called after her. Her feet came to a standstill, her back stiffened and she drew herself up to her full height, before continuing inside. He chuckled low in his throat.

"Da, you made Thea Lina _really_ mad," Sophie observed, eyes wide, mouth rounded. He reached over and ruffed her hair, still laughing.

"Just having a bit of fun with her, Sophie Bird," he assured. "Brothers and sisters do that sometimes."

"A _poorly_ behaved brother, at least," Laura corrected. "Girls, Holt, take your plates to the kitchen please."

Without question, all three did as instructed. Laura leaned back in her chair and gave Remington an assessing look.

"Go ahead and say it," she told him, resignedly. Now, or later, eventually he wouldn't be able to resist mentioning the parallel he undoubtedly drew.

"I've no idea what you mean, Laura." He held up his hands, and feigned an innocent look. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded her head slowly.

"We'll see."

Standing, she picked up her plate, and gathered the children's and her own drinking glasses, while Remington did likewise with Melina's glass and his. He spoke only as they stepped into the house.

"It occurs to me, the way Melina is with Jacoby is very similar… Oomph." He sucked in a sharp breath when her elbow landed square in his stomach. Even expecting it, that elbow developed quite the wallop.

"Have no idea what I mean, huh?"

With those final words, she flounced inside, her ponytail swinging behind her.

* * *

Livvie screeched happily as her tiny body sailed through the air then hit the water. Laura, standing near where Livvie had gone underwater with Holt perched on her hip, held out a hand for Livvie to grab when she emerged puffing and grinning.

"Again!" she shouted at her father.

"'Fraid I've no time, a stór," Remington called back, as Livvie grabbed Laura's hand, and tread water. "I've a polo match in a bit over an hour and I've still lunch to prepare. Ciardha will be cross with me if I were to arrive late and he were to miss his playtime." As he directed his attention to Sophie, Livvie giggled. "Which is it to be, a thaisce? Hands, shoulders or whirlybird," he addressed Sophie.

"Shoulders!" she insisted.

"Ciardha is a horse," Livvie contested. "He can't get mad at you."

"Oh, but he can… and _does,_ I assure you," he countered, as he swung his oldest child up onto his shoulders then held her hands as she planted her feet on them and stood. "Last time he'd didn't get his playtime, he bucked me straight off next time I rode him. Ready?" he called upwards to Sophie. He was unable to see her nod, but heard her countdown easily enough.

"Three…" He bent his knees, going low in the water. "Two… One!" On one he sprung up at the same time as Sophie propelled herself from his shoulders. She dove into the water some six feet away.

"Did you fall on your bum?" Livvie wondered with another giggle.

"Flat on my back, I'm afraid," he informed her, widening his blue eyes for exaggeration as he waded in the direction of Laura, Livvie and Holt. "Hurt like the dickens, and I'm not inclined to repeat the experience if I can avoid it." He reached for Sophie's hand when she emerged from the water, wiping at her eyes.

"Alright, everyone out of the water," Laura ordered, as Remington took Holt from her arms.

"Can we play on the beach, Mommy, _please_?" Livvie pled.

"I wanna make cassles," Holt seconded.

"Castles," Laura corrected while looking to Remington for his opinion. He lifted and dropped a shoulder, indicating he was good with whatever. "The beach it is, but only until Da has lunch ready. Then it's naptime for Holt, and chores and quiet time for the two of you," she indicated the girls.

"Awwww," the girls groused in unison, before running through the shallow water to the beachfront. Remington sat Holt on his feet and he scampered off in the direction of his sand toys. Remington hooked an arm around Laura's waist and drew her to him when she made to follow the children. Turning in his arm, she smiled up at him.

"Something on your mind, _Mr. Steele?_ " she teased.

"Mmmm. You, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Steele." He tapped a finger on her nose, watched as she winced. "You're getting a bit pink. Might I suggest you cover up? I'd hate for you to be too uncomfortable to enjoy our evening. She stroked a hand along his bare shoulder, then arm.

"Have something in mind, do you?" she inquired in a low, sultry voice. He tugged her slightly closer and swayed with her.

"A little dinner, some dancing…" He peered over her shoulder, making certain the kids were occupied and out of range of hearing "…putting all the fantasies this little scrap of fabric you're wearing has inspired to good use?" She laughed low in her throat. Her husband certainly appreciated her petite frame in a bikini… especially red ones, such as she was wearing now.

Frances hasn't been too much younger than Laura was now, when she'd fretted the natural aging process had chased Donald into the arms of a younger… perkier… blonde dental assistant.

* * *

 _ **"Oh Laura, look at me. I'm not exactly the size six I was when we got married. And as much as Donald says he likes to have something to grab onto, it doesn't mean a thing."**_

* * *

Although Laura was a slim as she ever was, she was finding it took a little more effort than a just a few years ago to stay that way. Whether it was that she now indulged on his extraordinary culinary abilities daily or because age was catching up to her she couldn't say. What she _could_ say was Remington's regular reminders that he found her as attractive as he always had were a nice boost to the ego of a woman fast approaching her thirty-ninth birthday.

Given she still enjoyed his body as much as she ever had, that was a good thing – because she didn't plan to stop showing him just how much she appreciated it anytime soon.

"I think that can be arranged," she told him now. With a lift of his brows, he hummed his approval then leaned in to tap his lips to hers.

"I thought we'd keep lunch simple: BLT's and a fruit plate," he told her as he released her. "Shouldn't take but twenty-minutes. I'll call down when it's ready." He pointed a finger at her as he began walking towards the house. "Cover up." She gave him a mock salute, then turned to the girls.

The next ten minutes, cover-up and sun hat donned, found her acting simultaneously as gymnastics coach and architect, as she critiqued Sophie and Livvie's stunts and aided Holt with the construction of his sand castle.

"Mommy watch!" Livvie called to her.

"Remember to point your toes," Laura called back. Olivia and Sophia had come home from the last day of first grade some three months before, begging to be signed up for gymnastics camp that summer. The day camp had offered a combination of gymnastics' instruction and the normal camp offerings of swimming, art, and plenty of outdoor play time. The girls had been instantly hooked, and since then had added twice weekly gymnastics lessons to their twice weekly dance class.

She watched as Olivia executed a near perfect combination of a cartwheel into a round off.

"Great job, Livvie!" she praised, as Livvie ran over to join her and Holt, where they sat on the beach making a sandcastle together. Livvie peered into a bucket and made a quick decision.

"I'll get more water," she announced, then stood and ran towards the surf with the bucket in hand.

"Alright, Soph, let's see what you've got," Laura instructed.

With a running start, the slim blonde performed a three-part combination of cartwheel, round off, and backbend.

"Wonderful, Soph!" Laura praised. "Next time bring your core up just a touch higher on the backbend."

"Okay, Mommy," Sophie agreed, easily. While constructive criticism could, at times, make Livvie cross, Sophie genuinely appreciated it. Both girls were extremely competitive, in their own, very different ways: Olivia like to compete against others, and win; whereas, Sophie liked to compete against herself. Kneeling down next to her mother in the sand, Sophie reached for a shovel to help pack a bucket of wet sand. "Can we practice some more after lunch?"

"We'll see. But first, lunch, nap," she ruffed Holt's dark hair, "chores and quiet time." Holt looked up at his mother and smiled. Unlike the girls, he appreciated a good nap.

"Hello, Laura," a deep, masculine voice greeted from behind. Laura's spine stiffened and her heart quickened, the intrusion unexpected, and most unwanted. Pressing her hand to the top of her head, to keep the breeze from blowing off her sunhat, she turned and faced the man. Her pulse raced and her breathing turned shallow.

She turned away from the man and called to the children.

"Girls, Da should be just about done making lunch. Take your brother up to the house, please, and let Da know I'll be there as soon as I finish talking with…" she struggled for something that would pass as plausible but would serve as a signal to Remington as well "…this salesman," she finished, lamely, lamenting her inability to think coherently.

"Yes, Mommy," Sophie replied, then taking Holt by the hand began walking to the stairs that would take them upwards to the house. Livvie, who'd taken the time to cast a suspicious look at the man, caught up before Sophie swung open the gate. Laura crossed an arm in front of herself, still holding on to her hat with the other hand.

"How did you find me?" she asked the man, coolly, her eyes flicking back and forth, monitoring the children's progress.

"You and your husband have been in the papers enough over the years," he answered, then shrugged. "I followed you here from Century Towers one day. I've been just waiting for… the right opportunity…" he shrugged again "…to come along." Her face a mask of icy calm, she tilted up her chin a notch, and gave a slow shake of her head.

"And the 'right opportunity' has never come along before now?" The man worried his hands in front of him.

"That's a complicated question," he noted. "Laura—"

"You shouldn't have bothered," she cut him off, her chin going up yet another notch as she shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remington appear at the top of the stairs, then look down to the beach for her. Spotting her and the man together, he swung open the gate and began to descend the stairs.

"it would appear he's as perceptive as the papers say he is," the man observed, turning to look at whatever it was that had caught her eye. She turned to look at him again.

"He is," she confirmed. "I would say thanks for stopping by, but…" she let the words trail off suggestively.

"Laura, if you'll—" She held up a hand with another shake of her head, this one adamant.

"I'm not interested," she ground out, turning enough to see Remington closing the distance across the sand. "My family's just preparing to sit down to lunch, so if you don't mind…" she held a hand out towards the direction of the public access stairs some quarter of a mile away. _Private beach, be damned,_ she fumed.

"If you'd just give me a chance to—"

"You had your chance," she snapped, feeling Remington's presence behind her now, "And you made your choice." Spinning on her heel, she began to walk towards the stairs, Remington automatically falling into place at her side and laying a hand on the small of her back, as he glanced back at the man who seemed somehow familiar.

"You always were the stubborn one, weren't you, Champ?" the man called after her. She abruptly stopped walking, catching Remington off guard and making him stumble while he mouthed the word 'champ?' She laughed in the face of the man's audacity.

"Champ?" she asked, derisively. "Champ no longer exists. Hasn't existed since the day after my sweet sixteen." She gave her head a sharp nod. "Goodbye." With that, she continued her trek towards the stairs.

"Please," the man beseeched Remington, as he held out a piece of paper. "At least take this in case she changes her mind." Looking from the man to Laura's back then back to the man again, he snatched the paper then raced after his wife.

"Laura," he spoke as they passed through the first gate, "Was that—"

"My father..."


	4. July 4, 1982 - Part 2

_July 4, 1982_

 _As night fell, a small crowd remained congregated in the parking lot. Some of the onlookers were nothing more than rubberneckers, watching another person's tragedy play out before them, while others remained hoping, praying for a miracle: That a little girl lost would be found and restored to her terrified parents._

 _On the beach below, Barb sat on the sand, clutching a small pail in her arms while rocking back-and-forth, oblivious to the ongoing commotion surrounding her. Police officers, both on duty and off, had shown up in droves as word of a three-year-old child gone missing on the Fourth of July had spread. Beachgoers had been interviewed at length but not a one could recall taking note of a little girl alone on the beach, only becoming aware something was amiss when Josh and Barb had begun their frantic search for Lynnee. Now, on-duty officers remained long after their shifts had ended, to join their volunteer brothers and sisters on searching an expansive length of the beach, leaving no building, no vehicle, no grouping of sea oats left unchecked. Search and rescue had called in divers, and now, in the waning light, heads would bobble to the surface only to disappear beneath the water again. Even as searchers on the beach hoped that by some miracle it would be they who found a little girl who'd simply wandered off, those in the water prayed it would not be they who found her instead._

" _I promise, baby, I won't be angry with you. Mommy and Daddy just want to take you home. Please, Lynnee, please, please, please…"_

 _Barb had long ago grown hoarse from screaming her oldest child's name. After hours of running up and down the beach in search of her little girl, Barb's legs had finally turned to gelatin and she'd slumped to the ground next to the sand pail she'd given to Lynnee before issuing the order…_

" _Go play."_

 _The memory of those words sent a fresh round of guilt washing over her, and she softly keened her despair._

" _Lynnee, please, baby, come to Mommy. Please, please, please…"_

 _She rocked, she prayed, she made bargains with and promises to the God she'd never quite believed in if only He'd return her child to her arms._

 _All those vows, recriminations, promises and pleas had been for naught, for at midnight a haggard faced man in his early sixties had appeared before her with Josh at his side. A surge of hope like she'd never known before sent her leaping to her feet._

" _Have you found Lynnee?"_

 _She'd known. In the instant the man's face had crumpled and he'd had to avert his eyes while he tried to collect himself, she'd known. When she'd looked to Josh for assurance, and had found him pale, eyes filled with unbearable grief, she'd known. Still, when the words had come, she'd been unprepared and disbelieving._

" _Mrs. Jefferson, I regret to inform you that the search has been called off. At break of day tomorrow, we'll begin recovery operations." She frowned and shook her head at the man, not understanding, even as Josh staggered on his feet as though someone had delivered a physical blow to his midsection, confusing her all the more. Her eyes left her husband and returned to the man leading the search._

" _Recovery? I don't understand?" she babbled, edging towards hysteria as the man's words and Josh's reaction began coalescing in her mind. "You're giving up?" She wrapped her arms around her middle, gulping for air. "You think she's…" She could force the word past her lips. "She's not gone! She's_ _not_ _!"_

" _Barbie," Josh choked out, stumbling to her and wrapping his arms around her. She stayed in his embrace for the span of ten heartbeats, then with a growl, shoved him away._

" _No," she yelled. "She's not gone! She's not. I can still_ _feel_ _her," she keened, wrapping her arms around herself again, as she stooped down. Looking from face-to-face, she drew in a large, raspy breath as she absorbed the hopelessness, the resignation in two pairs of eyes. She shook her head wildly. "No. Nononononono. I don't believe you," she pled the denial. A grief she was unable to bear sliced through her. "Noooooooooooooooo." Her wail drew the attention of all on the beach, along with the onlookers milling in the parking lot. She shook her head vigorously. No, she wouldn't believe, couldn't believe, her daughter could be gone and she wouldn't_ _feel_ _that loss. She launched herself to her feet. If Search and Rescue… the lifeguards… the police…_

 _Josh…_

 _She wouldn't. She'd find Lynnee herself and prove them all wrong. Her baby was alive._ _She'd_ _bring her home._

" _Lynneeeeeeee—" she screamed, running down the beach. "Come to Mommy, baby! We're not angry you ran off. Honestly. Lynneeeeeee…"_

* * *

 _Josh turned off the engine of the van, and rested the side of his head against the steering wheel to stare at Barb. She'd run back-and-forth along the beach for more than an hour, becoming more hysterical, more desperate as each minute ticked past and Lynnee still had not appeared. The decision had finally been made to bring in a squad of paramedics. She'd fought, she'd clawed at him and the men trying to help her, had flailed at anyone who tried to come near her – finally connecting with the nose of one of the paramedics, giving the man a bloody nose. His partner had quickly injected a dose of a clear liquid into her arm – of what, Josh had no idea – and before he could count to ten, she'd collapsed where she stood._

 _A sedative of some kind. He'd been too upset to absorb all the paramedic had explained. Sedative, sleep, it was all he could manage to hold on to._

 _Sleep._

 _He wanted to lose himself in it much as she had. He wanted to sink into the darkness, to dream it was yesterday when they'd still had three children, when he'd believed those dark days of Barb's postpartum depression might finally be behind them._

 _Yesterday had been a good day. A hopeful one. A happy one._

 _He didn't know how they'd ever know another day like that again._

 _He would never remember how he'd gotten Barbie to their second floor bedroom, but could only speculate he must have carried her._

 _No, the only thing he'd remember that evening after he'd pulled the van into the driveway was that this was the moment he finally understood what people meant when they'd said they had felt the loss of a spouse, parent, sibling to 'the depths of their soul.' His grief seemed infinite, eternal._

 _No one had ever given him the words to explain the emotions that accompanied the loss of one's child._

 _A sudden burst of rage burned straight through him, and he whirled to smash a fist through the drywall above his night stand._

 _The finger in the dam that had allowed him to hold himself together came loose. He stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. His knees buckled and he fell to them against the tile floor, as a feral howl of grief ripped free of his throat before morphing into deep sobs that wracked his body. He rested his weight on the elbow of one arm, while he pounded his right fist into the tile over-and-over-and-over again. The porcelain shattered on the third impact, the shards slicing at the skin. It wasn't until he felt the sharp crack of bones breaking that the pain in his hand rivaled that in his heart enough that he could at least breathe. Collapsing face down on the floor, he sobbed until he fell into an exhausted, troubled slumber._


	5. Chapter 3: Reflections - Remington

Chapter 3: Reflections - Remington

Remington swung his leg over Ciardha's back and settled himself in the saddle. With the gentle nudge of foot to flank and a click of his tongue, his reliable mount reentered the fray of the game, the beast far more committed to the polo match which had just entered into the fifth chukker, than the man who sat astride his back, for he was lost in thought.

A day that had begun bright with promise, had taken a decidedly downward spiral with the arrival of Laura's father on the beach. On the way back to the house, she'd refused to speak more than four words about the encounter or the feelings the surprise visit had inspired.

"My father…"

Then, as they'd walked across the deck towards the house, when he'd approached her with a question a flattened palm snapped upwards in his direction with an abrupt…

"Not now."

Foolishly, he'd tried again after lunch, while he cleared the table and she began the process of rinsing dishes and cups and putting them in the dishwasher.

"Any idea how he knew where we live?" She'd completely stilled at the question and had stared straight ahead at the wall in front of her.

"He followed me home from the office one afternoon," she finally answered, stiffly, then resumed rinsing. "Contrary to what they say, I think you could argue him finding me was proof not all publicity is good publicity." He stepped out of the kitchen to collect the silverware from the table.

"Any idea what spurred the decision to pop by?" he questioned, as he stepped back into the kitchen. Her shoulders tensed as she again. As though taking the flatware would require a commitment on her part to continue with the conversation, she reluctantly took it from the offering hand.

"No." The single syllable response in its brevity should have been a sufficient enough of a hint that she didn't wish to speak on the matter at the moment - as should have the way she tossed the silverware in the sink - but he forged on. Propping a hip against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned slightly back so he could see her face.

"Do you think he's planning on paying a visit to Frances as well?" With purpose, she turned her back to him, under the guise of loading the dishwasher.

"I wouldn't know," she replied, her voice climbing a half-octave.

"Are you going to ring her up?" Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hand into a fist.

"I haven't decided." His brow furrowed.

"If he hasn't contacted her already, don't you think you should give her fair warning that he may?" She straightened, then resumed her original position, collecting the silverware and rinsing it, trying hard to maintain her composure.

"As opposed to the warning I received?" she asked, with an edge to her voice.

"Have you given thought to hearing your father out. It could—" She dropped the utensils back into the sink and, with a thunderous glare at her husband, slapped her hands against the counter.

"Mr. Steele, would you please let me understand the facts of my own life, then I'll give them to you, okay?" she rebuked venomously. He blinked hard, then slowly straightened.

"Of course, Miss Holt." He nodded as he spoke, in a rather courtly manner, oblivious to the name by which he'd called her. "I'll just change, then be on my way."

With that, he'd departed the room, and hadn't seen her again before leaving for the polo club.

Now, he was awash with regret. In hindsight, he'd been so busy questioning her, he hadn't been listening to what she'd been saying… at least what her body had. He'd been unable to contain himself, in part from admitted curiosity, but also out of concern.

From the day he'd barged into Laura's life, he'd been as curious about her past as she ever had been about his. From inserting himself into Laura and her mother's dinner plans the first time Abigail had come to Los Angeles after he'd claimed the role of Remington Steele, to quizzing Laura after discovering a man's belongings in her home, to pumping Wilson Jeffries for information about his prior relationship with Laura and getting the man to reveal details about the woman Laura had been before, he'd eagerly digested the tiniest of morsel of Laura's past, the hunger to know more never sated. Even after seven years of marriage, he was convinced there was a considerable bit of her life before him of which he had no knowledge. There was a certain irony in that, as for many years his reticence to speak of his own past had been a major stumbling block in their relationship even while it was her own past and the lessons learned had been cause for her to keep him at arm's length.

Men don't stay. It was a lesson she'd learned at the hands of Jack Holt, one that had been reinforced later by Wilson Jeffries.

Jack Holt. That was her father's name. She'd never spoken it, and neither had Abigail nor Frances. In fact, Frances and Abigail never made mention of the man at all and when Laura had, quite painfully, she'd referred to him only as 'my father'. The man had left behind a legacy of hurt and betrayal in his abandonment of his family.

And he, Remington, had spent near on a third of his life paying for the man's unpardonable choice.

It had taken nearly a half decade for Laura to finally believe that he wouldn't be yet another man to leave her in his rearview mirror, and in the years since they'd created a life that even in his fondest of daydreams had never defied to imagine: A wife who was not only his closest friend, but that he loved to distraction, and – miracle of all miracles – loved him with equal devotion and intensity. Three intelligent, beautiful and, most importantly, happy children whom any man would be proud to call his own. A beach home that wrapped their family in its warm embrace. A job he enjoyed. And, something he'd never even conceived of… His father found and very present in his life. All of it because Laura had dared to believe, when the past told her she shouldn't.

But, she wouldn't be Laura unless she had her occasional bouts of uncertainty – something he'd become far more verse at identifying over the years, at least when compared to their early years when he'd often inadvertently do something, say something, that would feed her fears and insecurities. Thick-headed though he might be at times, he'd learned to avoid those things that would leave her looking at him warily as though waiting for his announcement that he'd tired of this life he'd not only chosen but had worked damned hard to have. There were no spontaneous side trips, at least ones that she didn't accompany him on. He made it a point to announce jaunts to Vegas with Monroe well in advance, while dropping subtle reminders before his departure of all the reasons he was looking forward to his return. When they fought, and he needed time and space to lick his wounds or nurse his temper, he didn't hop a plane for Tahiti. No, he would journey only so far as to another room in the house: space, but not distance, that was the key.

There were events over which he had no control, those things that came to pass for no other reason than the passage of time itself. They'd enjoyed a remarkable year-and-half after her bout with post partum, where she'd been steadily secure in him, them, the life they'd built. Then along had traipsed his fortieth birthday, and there it was again: Those long spells of silence when she'd look at him in askance, unaware she was even doing so, the occasional dullness in her eyes as he held her when only moments before light had been sparkling in the depths of those lovely brown orbs. He'd become increasingly frustrated, unwilling to ask what it was he'd said or done, but utterly unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together on his own. It had taken Mildred, God bless her tendency to mother him, to clue him in on what it was he missing.

He'd been sitting at his desk, feet propped on its corner, his chin resting on a knuckled fist, staring into nothingness, feeling utterly defeated. Laura had begun retreating from him in her mind almost a full six weeks before, and her more and more frequent reticence was beginning to take its toll. He longed for the tranquil, confident ease that had come to characterize their marriage. Oh, they'd still fuss at one another, vie for the upper hand on occasion and regularly engage in a battle of wits, but those things had never bothered him. To the contrary, he considered their verbal sparring to be the very spice of life. It was the way he'd find her watching him, as her fingers stroking the base of her throat and her brows furrowed, or the way she'd subtly shift away from him when he'd step behind her and ease a hand around her waist that were eating away at him. He could _feel_ her building that wall between them again, brick-by-brick and he was helpless to stop it.

And into his brooding – or office, as the case might be – had barged Mildred, closing the door behind her, and sitting in a chair across from him, while crossing her arms in front of herself.

"Alright, Chief, let's have it," she ordered. He never moved, only slanted his eyes in her direction.

"Have what, Mildred?" he replied, disinterestedly.

"You've been moping around all day. So what gives? Are you and Mrs. Steele fighting?" Standing, he walked to the window and fingered back the curtain to stare out over the city.

"I've no idea what's gotten into her," he admitted with a puff. Her eyes narrowed on his back.

"You haven't been up to your old tricks, have you Boss?" she asked, suspicion tingeing her words.

"If that were the case, I'd know what's bothering her, wouldn't I?" he retorted petulantly. Facing her, he offered her his finest pout. She was having none of it.

"Well, have you asked her?" Resting his bum against the windowsill, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Ah, you know how Laura is, Mildred. She'll just deny anything is wrong at all until she is well and ready to talk - or worse, until after she's fully tried and convicted me without ever giving me a chance to defend myself."

"Well, I'd get to figuring it if I were you, otherwise that romantic trip you have planned for next week is gonna be a bust," she advised. He pushed away from the wall to pace.

"You think I don't know that?" he asked with the lift and drop of a hand. "You think I haven't tried to unravel the mystery of whatever it is going on in that mind of hers? As far as I know, I haven't bungled anything here at the office. I haven't made any extravagant purchases without her input of late. I haven't-" Mildred flipped a dismissive hand at him, cutting him off.

"Awww, Boss, you know Mrs. Steele wouldn't hesitate to tell you off for those kinds of things. You've gotta think _bigger_ ," she encouraged. "I can only think of two other times I've seen her like this: When you disappeared the summer of '85 and when she thought you were having an affair with that Felicia broad." She sucked in a sharp breath, and her rounded eyes flew to his face. "Boss," she elongated his name with horror, "You're not—" He scowled at her and waved her off.

"Don't be ridiculous," he admonished. "How could you even ask such a thing? You know what Laura means to me."

"Well, you did just turn forty… midlife crisis and all," she'd defended. "Then there's the fact you're about to celebrate the tenth year of your arrival and we all know sticking wasn't exactly your strong suit, once upon a time. And you have to…"

He'd tuned Mildred out at that point as it had suddenly all fallen together. He'd taken a few seconds to mutter a silent string of epitaphs. He'd thought her insecurities were a thing of the past, but apparently her fears had only been lying dormant until they'd been brought back to life by a seemingly innocuous event. _Two, actually_ , he mentally amended. Two events that marked passages of time, one of which was fraught with peril according to old wives tales while the other marked ten years of something that history said should never have been. It was the perfect storm where Laura was concerned.

He'd spent the remainder of the afternoon mulling over how to best approach her, coming up with a handful of ways that might have some small measure of success. In the end, however, as he'd watched her standing at the rail of the balcony looking out over the sparkling water below, he'd decided on the honest simplicity she trusted and appreciated. Stepping behind her, he slipped an arm around her waist, felt the subtle stiffening and slight shift away from him. Bending his head down, he spoke next to her ear.

"I won't hazard a guess as to what is you've been masticating upon these last weeks," he murmured, "But whatever it is, don't borrow trouble where none exists, love."

He'd been certain she'd felt him sag in relief when, after she'd absorbed his words, on faith alone she had believed him. For the first time in weeks, instead of placing distance between them, she'd leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, a hand against his cheek.

Her restored confidence in him, them, had enjoyed a fair run – nearly eight months – before the next milestone had again left the ground beneath her quaking. Their seventh anniversary. Well, _this_ movie he knew. _The Seven Year Itch_ , Marilyn Monroe, Tom Ewell, Evelyn Keyes, Twentieth Century Fox, 1955. A previously faithfully married man, on the heels of his seventh wedding anniversary, is tempted by the idea of an affair with a beautiful neighbor.

Well, he wasn't about to let her fertile imagination run away with her on this one, for there was only one woman he craved to share passionate exploits with, one woman who was the star of his fantasies.

Thus, having recognized the signs early on, as they'd danced on a terrace overlooking the Aegean, he laid them to rest by sharing one of his fonder daydreams with her.

"Seven years. We'll be celebrating our silver anniversary before you know it, perhaps even with a grandchild or two toddling about our feet."

They hadn't been merely words, either, as he'd meant each and every syllable – including his pledge to marry her all over again on their silver anniversary. If these last eight years were any indication of what the future held for them, he was all in… as though he wasn't already. He'd taken a huge gamble walking away from a successful, albeit it slightly illegal career, for what they might have together and it had been, without a doubt, the wisest wager he'd ever made. While Laura might have her periodic concerns about his ability to stick this out, he had not a one. In his eyes, just as there was no woman who could compare to Laura, there was no life that could possibly be richer, more rewarding than the life, family and home they'd built together.

And now, with another big event looming, the twelfth anniversary of his becoming Remington Steele, who should appear? The very man who had first taught Laura that men don't stay.

He swung the mallet harder than intended and sent the ball sailing out of bounds.

For the fifth time in as many chukkers played. He uttered, not so silently, a string of oaths. _That's what happens when your head's not in the game, old sport._

Monroe wasn't of a different opinion, and he said as much when he brought his mount to a halt next to Ciardha.

"You've fouled more this afternoon, old friend, than you've done in the last year." Leaning forward, Remington patted CIardha's sweat lathered shoulder.

"Sorry, mate, can't seem to get my mind in the game today," he acknowledged.

"So I've seen," Monroe observed, a wry note in his voice, "I've a willing ear should you need one." Remington mulled the offer, then spoke with some reluctance.

"We had an unexpected visitor this morning at the house." Monroe cast a critical eye over Remington's face, assessing .

"I gather an unwelcome visitor, given your state," he speculated. Looking over the polo field, Remington pursed his lips, and shook his head slowly.

"I don't know, I don't know," he admitted then turned to look at Monroe. "It was Laura's father." In his surprise, Monroe accidentally nicked his mounts flank, making him dance in place. Clicking his tongue and patting the horse's neck, he calmed it.

"Forgive the impertinence of this question, Mick, but what is it the man wants from our Laura after all these years?" Remington wiped a hand over his mouth while shaking his head again.

"I don't know, I don't know," he repeated.

"Then, perhaps, you are wasting your time here on the field today, old friend, when you should be finding out," Monroe advised. Remington gave him a pained look.

"You know how Laura is, mate. Should she discover I've spoken with him without her knowledge, she'll have my head."

"Better your head than her heart, should you ask me," Monroe returned. "Call me old fashioned, if you will, but I believe it is a man's obligation as a husband to protect his wife from anything untoward, should he be able." Humming in agreement, Remington nodded his head.

"Mmmmm, yet still, should Laura find out…"

"Then might I suggest you convince the man it would be to his own detriment should that occur?" A crooked smile slowly lifted a corner of Remington's mouth.

"Aye, I can do that." Monroe returned the grin.

"Then perhaps you should be on your way." Remington's smile faltered.

"And the last chukker?"

"Despite your deplorable play today, we are up four-to-one. We'll play the last a man short. Go, old friend, find out whether this man is friend… or foe." Remington extended a hand to the other man.

"Thank you."

Handshakes exchanged, Remington galloped off on Ciardha .


	6. Chapter 4: Frances

Chapter 4: Frances

Laura braced herself against the palms flattened on the edge of the sink and lifted her nose towards the ceiling, her face scrunched in regret.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty room.

She hadn't meant to hurt Remington. She'd only wanted him to… back off.

But she had hurt him… deeply so. She'd seen the recognition in his eyes as soon as the words she'd said had registered.

And they'd wounded him as deeply as they had her, nearly a decade before.

* * *

 _ **"What are you doing here?"**_

 _ **"Trying to understand what's happening... between us. Look, I'm not a child. If there's a woman in your past, I can accept that. But I want you to be honest with me. You knew Lydia and Anna were one and the same when you walked into the office—"**_

 _ **"Ah, Laura, please let me understand the facts of my own life then I'll give them to you, okay."**_

* * *

She hadn't even realized she'd been holding those words in her back pocket for all these years. Had she just been waiting for the opportunity when circumstances were somewhat similar – his past, her past? She didn't know. If she had, she didn't like herself much for it.

There was an apology owed.

Her shoulders sagged, and, wearily, she returned to loading the dishwasher.

Later. She would apologize later. But right now, she needed to put some order to her thoughts.

By rote, she finished the dishes, started the washer and wiped down table and counters before crossing the house to the playroom.

"Alright, girls, quiet time while Holt takes a nap," she reminded as she reached down and picked up her son. "I'll be back to look in on you when he's asleep."

"Yes, Mommy," Sophia agreed from where she sat on the floor playing with Charming.

"Okay, Mommy," Livvie echoed, looking up from where she was busily coloring a picture.

Upstairs, Laura tucked Holt into bed, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Sweet dreams," she wished him, as she stroked back his thick, raven colored hair, so much like his father's.

"Mommy?" His sweet voice brought the first real smile to her face since the unexpected visitor had appeared.

"Yes?" She fingered his hair while waiting for him to tell her what was on his mind.

"We maked a good caskle."

"We made a _great_ castle," she praised. Holt rolled to his side and snuggled into his pillow, only to suddenly roll to his back again.

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Can we maked another caskle?" She stared at his eager face, his avid bright blue eyes.

"Not today, little man," she refused regretfully, as she swept his rich raven-colored hair back off his forehead with a pair of fingers. "How about you and I get out the Playdoh after nap and we'll make a castle together out of that? What do you say?"

"I like Playdoh," he agreed, happily. Satisfied, he rolled to his side only to roll back once more.

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Will you stay?" She palmed her son's cheek in her hand, and widened her eyes at him.

"You _know_ I will." With a smile he rolled over for a final time, and closed his eyes, then waited patiently for her fingers to stroke through his hair – which, of course, they did. Holt found the act as soothing as his father did.

How many times when watching Holt had she wondered what Remington's life must have been like at his son's age?

When he'd first learned to crawl, had his eyes shined bright with joy as he'd made his way across the room to an awaiting pair of arms? When he'd had his first ear infection had there been someone willing to walk the floors all night, soothing him? Had anyone ever ignored the fact his small hands were pulling out their hair while they carried him on their shoulders? When he was being potty trained, had anyone taught him how to use the bathroom like a man?

What had his first word been, and who had he said it to? Had anyone been there at all?

When had the sparkle of joy she so often saw in her son's eyes, dimmed in his father's?

Standing, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her sleeping son's head, then quietly left the room. Downstairs, she checked in on the girls in their playroom, where Olivia was lying-in-wait.

"Mommy, can me and Sophie go outside?" It was not uncommon for the two girls to be permitted to play in their large, secured yard, but given the events of the day, Laura was unwilling to chance her father might still be lingering.

"Not today, I'm afraid," she replied as she crossed the room and opened an armoire that stored puzzles, games, dress up clothes and, on the highest shelf, the girls' treasured jewelry making kits. She selected two containers, while announcing , "But, I think it's the perfect day to make some new necklaces and bracelets. What do you say?"

"Yay!" Livvie and Sophie cheered.

"I'll be in the office if you need me. I have some work to do."

With those parting words, she left the playroom and sought the solace of the office she and Remington shared at the house – not that Remington actually worked at home, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Absently, she reached for a manila envelope that had arrived the day before bearing what was by now a familiar name. Three years ago a photojournalist from the LA Times, Vonn Bachmann, had caught the Steele family at play at a local park. Charmed by the family, she'd been unable to resist snapping several shots of them. A few days later an envelope, similar to the one Laura now held in hand was delivered containing pictures, that now owned a place in the family photo album – along with another half dozen pictures received since.

She had to admit she was more than a little curious where Bachmann had managed to catch them unaware this time.

Slipping her finger beneath the flap, she opened the envelope and slid out a pair of prints.

A soft smile played on her lips, for these were not family shots at all this time, but pictures of just her and Remington, he resplendent in a black tux, she wearing an elegant, backless black sheath that draped to the floor. A fundraiser for William Westfield's bid for California Attorney General had been the occasion, she recalled, held a week past. Located at White Oak Country Club, it had been a lavish affair: Black tie mandatory; dinner five-thousand a plate; a live orchestra; and dancing until well after midnight.

Vonn had caught them in a private moment: Her hand caressing Remington's chest, her smile wide, eyes sparkling at something he'd said. In the first print, he looked down at her with a cheeky smile, while in the second the lift of a single brow dared her to contest what he'd said.

Working hand-in-hand with Westfield three years prior to bring down Gabriel Castoro had had an unintended but welcome consequence: It had allowed Remington and her to close a particularly painful chapter of their past, once and for all. In the Spring of eighty-four, in a moment of panic cloaked a pique of temper, she'd suggested to Remington the place their relationship – personal and professional – on hiatus.

* * *

 _ **"Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together? Do we really have anything else in common besides this Agency?"**_

 _ **"Laura, if you're talking about my allergy to legwork-"**_

 _ **"No, it's got nothing to do with that. Don't you see? I mean, losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other, outside work. All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."**_

 _ **"Are you saying it hasn't worked?"**_

 _ **"Are you saying it has?"**_

 _ **"Well perhaps not consistently, but-"**_

 _ **"All I'm suggesting is that maybe we take some time, think about it for awhile. That's all."**_

* * *

She had ripped the carpet right out from beneath him… then had driven promptly to LAX, where she'd boarded a plane where William Westfield awaited her to fly away to Mexico with him. She'd been unable to see it through, instead admitting to William…. And herself… that she'd couldn't leave Remington unless she knew in her heart that had tried everything possible to make their personal relationship work.

 _She_ hadn't gone.

Remington _had_. Determined he wouldn't see her end their relationship for the second time in a year, he'd had the Agency's license restored . In pursuit of her, he'd discovered her hurriedly scrawled flight information on a piece of paper on her desk at the Agency. Believing she was on the run, he'd been witness to first Westfield, then her, boarding the flight she'd made notation of. Believing he had nothing left in LA, he'd left.

They had made it past it, returning to LA committed to one another and working towards a future… together.

Still, when they'd had to merge forces with Westfield to put Castoro behind bars, she'd known how difficult it would be for him. He would see the man as having been the only true threat to his position in her life, and she'd worried he might believe the man could be again. It was William, himself, who'd managed to soothe the waters of past and put to rest any concerns, had there been any, about the future, and he'd done it by doing nothing but being himself. He was a genuinely nice man, a respectful one, who'd never fathom pursuing a woman committed to someone else.

Had she a single concern Remington had put it all behind him, he would have inadvertently assuaged them the evening of the fundraiser. With a lift of a single brow as they'd danced, he'd smoothly commented…

"Still believe you chose wisely?" He'd been looking for a bit of ego stroking, and on that night she'd willingly given it to him.

"There was never any other choice."

His eyes had sparkled with warmth and approval, as he'd bestowed that cheeky smile upon her.

His lovemaking that evening and been slow and oh, so tender, she recalled, warmth infusing her at the memory.

With a mental note to show Remington the photos later, she set them aside.

Then leaned forward, pressed her elbows against desktop and dropped her face into her palms.

Remington hadn't been wrong when he'd suggested she should call Frances, warn her their long-lost father had decided to appear more than two decades after his abandonment of his wife and daughters… If, of course, she hadn't already had a similar visit and hadn't told Laura. Either way – unaware or aware – the reappearance of Jack Holt posed a threat to the painstaking steps Laura and Frances had taken towards mending their fractured relationship these last years.

Unlike the care the Steele's and Piper's had taken with their own families, the Holt home had been a house divided: Frances and Abigail versus Jack and Laura. As incapable as Laura had been of garnering their mother's approval, Frances had been equally unsuccessful in capturing their father's attention. The inability – even lack of effort – of their parents to find a common interest with the non-favored child, had resulted in a rift between the sisters that a decade ago Laura had believed could never be healed. But it had been, and she deeply feared their father's reemergence could create a chasm between them that this time they'd been unable to find a bridge across.

It was with no little reluctance that she straightened in her chair, reached for the portable phone and dialed Frances's number.

"Well, good afternoon, Laura," Donald greeted. He and Frances had only recently added caller ID to their phone plan, and were enthusiastic new users. "Calling to confirm lunch tomorrow?"

"No, actually," she replied. "I need to speak to Frances but before I do, I'd like to ask you something."

"Shoot," he agreed, easily. She selected her words carefully.

"Have you had any… _unexpected…_ visitors lately?" she wondered. She lifted her hand to massage a twitching brow.

"Can't say that we have. Why do you ask?"

"I think I owe it to Frances to explain the answer to that question to her first," she hedged. "But would you mind sticking around while she and I speak?"

"Sure," he replied, a hesitant tone in his voice. "Bad news, I take it?"

"I'm not sure," she told him honestly, drawing out the words, "I suppose that depends on Frances."

"Frannie, it's Laura," Donald announced as he stepped into the living room. Laura listened to some rustling then her sister's voice came over the line.

"Laura? Did you decide you'd like me to bring something tomorrow after all? I'm more than happy to, you know that. I could make Amish potato salad or antipasto, depending on what Remington plans to make. Or if you need dessert, you know how the children love my lemon bars. It wouldn't take any time at all to make them," Frances prattled. Unseen, Laura held up a hand, palm facing forward.

"We don't need you to bring anything," she assured, then dove right in. "Frances, we need to talk about something that happened today. The kids—"

"Has something happened to one of the children?" Frances cut her younger sister off, alarm making her voice rise an octave. Overhearing Frances's side of the conversation, Donald seated himself next to his wife and lay a hand on top of hers.

"No, no, no," Laura shook her head. "The children are fine. The kids and I…"

"Is it one of the kids?" Donald asked his wife, concerned. Frances shook her head and patted his hand.

"Were down on the beach this afternoon-"

"They're fine," Frances replied to Donald's query. "You scared poor Donald and I nearly to death, Laura," she interrupted her sister to scold. Laura puffed out a breath.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, then tried again, "While the children and I were—"

"The children and her were down on the beach earlier today, that's all," Frances filled in Donald, while Laura threw up a pair of hands in frustration. "I suppose I should ask if you're planning on the pool or beach tomorrow."

"Whichever you'd like," Laura answered, impatiently. "As I was saying—"

"The beach then. You know how Alex loves to play in the sand with Holt," Frances continued on, her mind shifting to some news of her own. "Oh, Laura, you'll never believe the news we got yesterday!"

"Frances, can you please focus?" her younger sister demanded, then threw herself back in her chair and crossed her arms when she heard Donald speak.

"Frannie, maybe you should let Laura share her news first," he suggested, gently.

"Well, I'm trying Donald but she just keeps repeating that she and the children were on the beach today," Frances defended, "And I really think Laura would want to know that we found out Alex…"

"Frances, Dad showed up on the beach today," Laura snapped.

"Has another—" Frances sputtered to a stop, her face draining of its color. "What did you just say, Laura?" she croaked. Her own emotions balancing precariously on the edge, Laura didn't bother apologizing for blurting out the news. She had, after all, tried… if Frances would have only given her a chance.

"Dad showed up here today," she repeated.

"I don't understand," Frances replied, a note of hysteria in her voice. She gripped Donald's hand tightly, making him grimace, as he watched on with mounting concern."How did he know where you live?" She gasped and eyes widened. "Have you been in contact with him all this time?"

"Of course not!" Laura snapped. Reining her temper in, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He'd seen articles about the Agency. He followed me home from there one day."

"Why? What does he want after all this time?" Laura lifted a hand and dropped it.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?" Frances's voice moved up another half octave. "Twenty years, Laura. _More_ than twenty years, and he didn't tell you why he walked out on us? Why we never heard from him again? What he wants?"

"Frankly, I didn't stick around," Laura answered honestly. "He chose to—" She stopped herself short when she realized she was about to reveal the contents of their father's letters to their grandmother after he left… and that she'd known what those letter said for nearly two decades, and she'd never said a word. "He chose to disappear without considering what it might do us and Mother and then this afternoon, he chose to appear at our house unannounced without considering how _I'd feel_. Livvie, Sophie, Holt – they were _there,"_ her emphasis on the last word underscored her unhappiness with that detail. _"He had no right!_ Well, this time I had a choice! And I chose not to speak with him, I chose to be the one that walked away. So no, he didn't explain anything to me, and honestly, I don't know that I want to hear anything he has to say!" Rant finished, she fell silent, her breaths coming fast as though she'd just come back from a run. While prone to histrionics, hearing her younger sister's upset, she flawlessly shifted to a long favored role: mother hen.

"Well, I don't blame you," Frances exclaimed with passionate indignation. She fell silent as well for several seconds, then added in a far more timid voice. "You and Father used to be so close. I'd think you'd be thrilled to see him again."

"Why would I be?" Laura countered. "You were there. You saw what him leaving did to me. Did he care? _No_. I don't know that I care what it is he wants _now._ Do you?"

"Well, I don't know," Frances mulled. "I suppose I'd have to think about it. And talk to Donald, of course. Does Mother know?" Laura's brows knitted together.

"What do you think?" she grumbled.

"Don't you think she should?" The hint made Laura sit straight up in her chair as she shook her head adamantly.

"Well, I'm not telling her, if that's what you're suggesting," she retorted immediately. No, no. She and her mother had enough problems without Laura being the one to make the announcement that Jack Holt was back. It was time to retreat and quickly. "Look, I gotta go. I hear Holt and I promised we'd make Playdoh castles as soon as he got up from nap. I'll see you tomorrow."

She left her sister saying her goodbyes on the other end of the line when she hung up. Cowardly, though some might view her action, when it came to the relationship between she and Abigail, her mother found a way to criticize her when she announced the best of news. To be the one to inform her Jack Holt was back around. Oh, ho, no! It was a job clearly designed for either Donald or Remington.

 _Remington._ After a dozen years as partners and eight years of marriage, she'd come to rely on his opinion as much as she did her own, and vice versa. They'd found they were stronger in the face of adversity when they bounced their concerns off of one another, even if they didn't always take the path recommended by the other. Now that she was over the initial shock of her father's untimely arrival, she needed, almost desperately, to use her husband as a sounding board, to help her work through the confusion, the morass of emotions, to see logic.

She sighed heavily.

If he were even receptive to do so when he arrived home, given the words she'd hurled at him.

 _ **When**_ _he comes home, and who knows when that'll be?_

Her sniping and snipping generally amused him and, in truth, to this day he still took great pleasure in tweaking her temper. But they each had lines that were not to be crossed, and she'd crossed one of those lines today: Wielding the past as a weapon against him, be it his past or theirs, as he'd worked damned hard to overcome his own past and their shared past was riddled by mistakes, insecurities, fears, hesitancies and games on both their parts.

And Anna certainly hadn't been a game – not to him… but he had been to her, a deadly one. The first time she'd appeared, she'd turned him inside out and the second, he'd come damned close to dying. To have subconsciously chosen to rip the scab off that gaping wound to make him _back off?_

It wasn't a matter of _if_ he'd come home, she'd long ago stopped worrying about that possibility. No, the question was only when. Should she cancel their plans for the evening, begin considering what to make the children for dinner? Her cooking skills hadn't improved dramatically with the passage of time and advent of motherhood, but she could make a mean hot dog, an only slightly dark grilled cheese and tomato, and she could cook a sheet of chicken nuggets with the best of them. None of those choices, however, measured up to the flavor and nutrition of the meals Remington made most evenings.

Then there was the question of how long he'd place distance between them, physically and emotionally. Many years ago, she'd expressed to him how his isolation affected her…

* * *

"… _ **whether you're angry at something I've done, because I've hurt you, or because you're about to do something that you think I wouldn't agree with. You shut me out, take yourself away from me, leave me alone… I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to open myself up to you, to let you even further in if it that means when you shut me out the hurt only runs deeper."**_

* * *

It still stung, yet as he'd made concessions, so had she. He made it a point to always come home, no matter the depth of the slight, while she'd come to accept when he removed himself from her presence it was because he needed to find his footing again before he could forgive… or they had it out.

He'd forgive her, then forget, he always did. It was only a matter of how long it would take him to be ready to talk.

Leaning forward, she pressed her elbows to the desk top and dropped her face in her palms. That Jack Holt's unannounced appearance at their home had upset her enough to say what she had made the flame of her anger towards her father burn all the hotter…


	7. September 2, 1986

_September 2, 1986_

 _Four years, one month, and twenty-nine days, Barb ticked off as she stood in front of the long, single story building._

 _It had been four years, one month and twenty-nine days, since they'd lost Lynnee on that beach._

 _Today, Katie would begin kindergarten at the school before them. Were Lynnee still with them, she would have been starting second grade. Would she be excited, as Katie was, or would she regret the end of summer and drag her feet all the way to her classroom? What kind of backpack would she chose? Would she want to wear a dress today, or a pair of jeans? Would she like her new teacher?_

 _The by now familiar deep pang of longing for her little girl clenched at her stomach._

 _For eight days after Lynnee had disappeared on that Fourth of July day, Barb had crawled from bed before dawn to return to the beach, searching for her little girl until long after the sun dipped beneath the horizon. When that proved fruitless, she printed flyers, plastering them over the bathrooms at the beach, the snack bars and lifeguard stands; placing them under windshield wipers on cars in the beach parking lot and in parking lots of nearby stores. She camped out regularly in the lobby of the police precinct responsible for locating her missing child, staring at each and every officer that passed by – a reminder that she was waiting for them to do their job and bring her child home._

 _By the end of the second month, the guilt, the pitying looks, the way her youngest two children looked at her with hunger for her attention in their eyes began to take its toll. She took to sleeping in Lynnee's bed, where the slightest whiff of her child's scent still lingered. Sleep became increasingly more elusive, so she saw her family doctor who prescribed her valium and a mild sleep aid. It wasn't enough, so she began drinking a little vodka to help the medications along. A little eventually became a lot. She drank as soon as she woke in the morning , she drank her way through the afternoon, then evening._

 _The day after Josh suggested it was time to consider scheduling a memorial service she'd taken the bottles of sleeping pills and valium to bed with her along with a pint of vodka. She wanted only to be with Lynnee, to hold her baby in her arms again, to breath in her sweet scent, to hear her voice, her laugh… To feel her tiny arms encircling her neck as she held her tight. She needed her baby girl to know how very… very… sorry she was for that last day, for those last months._

 _Josh had never said what had made him check on her that evening, only that he'd had a feeling something was amiss. He'd saved her life, when she hadn't wanted it to be saved. She raged at him, railed at him, hit him, when she learned he'd signed commitment papers for her. For her own good? To keep her alive? She didn't want to be alive. She wanted to crawl into a grave, pull the dirt over top of her, to succumb to the darkness until the light came and with it her Lynnee._

 _She spent twenty days in-patient. Diagnosed with depression and PTSD, she was taken off the valium and sleeping medication and prescribed, instead, an anti-depressant. Upon release, she began meeting with a counselor twice weekly, a psychiatrist once monthly. She focused on the children she still had and it was they who were her salvation. Each time the urge to go out, buy a bottle of vodka and drink herself into oblivion arrived, she poured herself into them, instead. Ballet, gymnastics, t-ball, soccer. Visits to children's museums, the playground, zoo and pumpkin patches. Day trips to Disneyland. She showered them with the love, devotion, and approval she had neglected to provide Lynnee in the months before she left them… and to her two remaining children in the months after Lynnee had gone._

 _Trying to change how she felt on the inside, she changed how she looked on the outside. New look, new person, she theorized. She had her long brown hair cut into a bob with bangs, then had it dyed a deep red. She began wearing makeup. Her newly found habit of indulging in rich sweets instead of pills and alcohol had added twenty pounds to her once slender frame, making her curvy – which Josh seemed to appreciate. Gone were the long, flowing dresses or jeans and tees she'd favored, and in their place a sensible pair of slacks and a blouse. She did, indeed, feel differently: The more serious, less playful, adult version of the woman she'd once been._

 _A year after Lynnee had vanished, Josh had again brought up a memorial – closure, he said, for all who had lost her. She'd learned to accept Lynnee was not coming home, but she would never, ever accept that Lynnee had died. She agreed only to a small plaque, bearing an engraved picture of Lynnee, hung on a cross post at the beach that read:_

 _Lynn Marie Jefferson  
July 4, 1982  
Until We Meet Again_

 _The plaque had appeased Josh, believing the allowance meant she'd finally accepted Lynnee was dead… and she'd permitted it. She was done with trying to convince_ _anyone_ _Lynnee was still alive, that she could still_ _feel_ _her amongst the living. The last time she'd nearly succumbed to the belief Lynnee was dead, she'd ended up in bed with two handfuls of pills and a pint a vodka._

" _Barb?" Josh's voice broke through her thoughts._

" _I'm sorry," she apologized, then covered with "It just seems all so… big… for such a little girl."_

 _,"She'll be fine," he chuckled, pressing a hand lightly to her back to urge her forward. "Katie has talked of nothing else for weeks, isn't that right?" he asked his daughter, who nodded her head. "Better get used to a quiet house, Barb, with this guy following next year," he ruffed his son's hair fondly._

" _Maybe I could go back to work," she mentioned casually, as she turned a corner on the right and the rest of the family followed. The Thursday night before, the Jefferson family had visited the school for Kindergarten orientation and open house. They'd toured the school then had visited Katie's class and met her teacher. When they reached the door, Barb stooped down and adjusted the collar of Katie's dress._ " _Don't forget, your lunchbox is in your backpack, and your milk money," she emphasized the last two words, "Is in an envelope in your lunchbox." She gave her daughter a hug, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Have fun today."_

" _I will," Katie promised._

 _After Josh said his goodbyes as well, the now threesome returned from the way they had come._

" _Have you spoken with Myra about returning to work?" Josh asked, in response to her earlier comment as they weaved their way slowly through throngs of children and parents._

" _She's my therapist, not my keeper," she reminded. "And what has she said for the last three and a half years? If I don't want to find myself backsliding into depression again, finding and savoring the things that make me happy is as important as taking my medication."_

" _She also said to minimize the PTSD you needed to reduce your stress and avoid triggers," he countered._

" _My job's not—" She came to abrupt stop, her eyes fixated on a spot at the opposite end of the hallway. "Lynnee?" she whispered. Josh halted several steps ahead, when he realized Barb had stopped speaking. His brow furrowed, as he watched the color drain from her face._

" _Barb, what's wrong?"_

 _She moved a suddenly leaden foot forward, then the other. Adrenaline kicked in and then she was running, shoving Josh away when he grabbed at her. Her baby. She had to get to her baby before she was gone again. She pushed past parents, children, mindless of who she knocked down or into a wall… to all the eyes falling upon her._

 _Golden brown hair, big eyes, pert nose, chubby cheeks, full lips, strong jaw. Lynnee. She kept her eyes peeled on the prize oblivious to Josh chasing her, yelling her name._

 _And then she was holding her baby. For the first time in four years, one month and twenty-nine days, she was holding her baby as she cried. Her Lynnee. She'd finally found her…_


	8. Chapter 5: Second Chances

Chapter 5: Second Chances

Remington got off the lift on the fifth floor of the Downtowner Motel.

This particular hotel brought with it a host of memories. Were he to turn to his left and walk three doors down, he'd be standing in front of the very room in which he and Laura had taken sanctuary during the Lester Shane case. They'd been left reeling: Forged death certificates, county officials on the take… murder. They'd sought solace in one another's arms, sharing the bed in the room out of need to keep one another close, both recognizing they could have easily lost the other on that day. She'd been open to making love that night – finally! – and it had taken every bit of his willpower to turn her down. Making love on that night would have been a disaster in terms of the morning after. So yet again they'd waited.

And, in the end, their first time had been all the richer for it.

Shaking free the memories, he turned to his right. Six doors down, he paused in front of a door, lifting his hand to his mouth to gnaw at his thumb. Laura would have his head for this should she become aware of the visit and he might well find himself taking up residence in that room down the hall for his troubles. Yet, he had every confidence she'd be turning to him for support, his thoughts, once she calmed down and how could he possibly offer any guidance, any words of wisdom, whatsoever, when he had no idea if the man behind that door was, as Monroe had pointed out, friend or foe.

Jack Holt had not only done his daughter a great disservice, he'd irrevocably scarred her. Remington didn't think he'd ever forget their first Christmas as husband and wife, when they'd laid on the floor of their Holmby Hills home watching the twinkling lights of the newly erected tree, and she'd shared with him that she knew exactly where her father was, and why it was that she felt no compelling need to connect with the man.

* * *

 _ **"Letters. I found letters after my grandmother died. From him to her. He'd been writing Grandmother since he left. In all those years, not a single word to Frances and I. From what I could gather from the letters, Grandmother brought us up several times during the first couple of years because in his letters he'd mention that Frances and I would be fine, we didn't need him. Frances had mother and I was**_ _ **strong**_ _ **. We didn't need him, not like…"**_

 _ **"Not like what, love?"**_

 _ **"Not like his new wife, her boys. A widow and her two fatherless sons.**_ _ **They**_ _ **needed a father,**_ _ **they**_ _ **had already lost so much. In one letter it was clear she'd told him about my… breakdown… had asked him to come back, that I needed some sort of… closure… assurances maybe… at the very least his presence in some manner, no matter how peripheral it might be. He politely declined. It wasn't a good time for him. His wife and sons needed him there. New marriage, new home, new life."**_

* * *

The father she'd adored had not only abandoned her, but had further wounded her by choosing another man's sons over the daughter who'd all but worshipped him. She'd been… disposable. Never having measured up in Abigail's eyes, she hadn't in Jack Holt's either.

Well, if Jack Holt had come 'round for no other reason than to assuage his curiosity about the children he'd turned his back on whilst planning to walk away again once he had his answers, he had another thing coming. Remington would not stand by while Laura was taken to her knees again. Not on his watch.

With that thought in mind, he rapped on the door.

"Mr. Steele!" Jack Holt exclaimed, clearly caught off guard by the younger man's arrival. "Come in," he invited, extending an arm in invitation. In the blink of an eye Remington assessed the man's physical traits, comparing them to Laura's. Hair turned mostly grey still sported a few auburn streaks in it, and eyes that were somewhat rheumy were the same deep brown with a bent towards amber like his daughter's, but that is where the similarities ended. Funny, he'd always assumed she resembled her father as one would never suspect Abigail and she were mother and daughter.

"Thank you," he replied as he stepped into the modest room, sporting bed, dresser, fixed nightstand, and a small table with a pair of chairs on either side.

"I'd offer you a drink but…" Jack allowed the room to speak for itself, while wringing his hands, unsure of the purpose of his son-in-law's visit. Remington held up a hand, and shook his head, indicating the niceties would be unnecessary.

"I'm fine," he assured.

"Did Laura send you here to get rid of me?" Jack blurted out nervously. Remington dragged a hand through his hair, on edge himself, but his eyes narrowed on the man. The question was telling: Jack Holt didn't know his daughter at all.

"Laura neither needs nor wishes anyone to speak on her behalf," he corrected the misassumption. "I've come quite on my own." He didn't mince words. "What is it, exactly, you're hoping for from her?" Jack raised and dropped his hands, while puffing out a quick breath, in an affect very much like one Laura was prone to using when at a loss.

"A chance to be a part of her life," he answered, honestly, "Nothing more than that." A spark of anger at the man's audacity made Remington's blood hum.

"It seems to me you had that chance more than a pair of decades ago, and you chose to toss it away, as though your family was nothing more than dirty bath water," he rebuffed before reining in his agitation.

"I won't apologize for leaving," Jack replied, cautiously. "I feel like if I did, I'd be saying I regret the life I've had with my wife and son and I don't. Not at all." Remington stared at the man, aghast.

"Even though the cost of that life came at the expense of your daughters?"

"Man-to-man?" Jack questioned. Remington held out a hand in invite.

"Of course," he agreed, with a tinge of sarcasm.

"I was suffocating. Abigail always nagging and complaining; Frances simpering on-and-on about boys and blemishes and how she hated her hair…" Jack reminisced, bitterly.

"And Laura?" Remington prodded, tightly. Jack smiled widely.

"She was my champ," he boasted. "Strong, intelligent, determined, adventurous." His smile faded. "She was convinced I hung the stars and the moon in the sky just for her." He turned troubled. "You have no idea the pressure that puts on a man." Remington shook his head, disbelievingly.

"Well, yes, but it is a pressure a father should bear willingly, proudly even, I should think," he refuted the excuse. "In fact, I can only hope my children think the same of me one day."

"For many years, I felt the same. And then…" Remington jumped on the hanging thought.

"And then? And then what?" he pressed. Jack sat down on the edge of the bed and with elbows pressed to knees held his hands out, palms up.

"And then I just felt… like a failure. Abigail always complaining, Frances and I with nothing in common. Then there was Laura," he sighed, averting his face from Remington.

"What about Laura?" Remington demanded to know, his temper heating again. Should the man blame his abandonment on a young girl, he might well put a hand around the man's neck, Laura's father or not.

"If I found it difficult to appease Abigail, it was impossible for Laura," Jack shared. "No matter her accomplishments, Abigail would find a way to criticize her. We argued, constantly, over it and, in time, the more I defended Laura the harder Abigail was on her. You have no idea what it is like to have someone look at you like a hero while you know you don't even come close. I felt like… a failure," he repeated. "I was forty-three-years-old and had stuck out a miserable marriage for more than a third of my life for no other reason that that was what I was expected to do." He looked up at Remington, his eyes pleading for understanding. "The majority of my life was behind me. I saw a chance to be happy and took it." Remington was having none of it.

"Be damned the consequences for everyone else, eh?" he challenged. Jack came abruptly to his feet and paced away to the far side of the room before spinning around to look at Remington, his own temper igniting as he was forced to defend himself.

"Abigail was no happier in our marriage than I was," he argued, passionately. "Image. That's _all_ she cared about: Divorce was not the thing. She'd have clung to our marriage until one of us died if it meant not having to tell the women at Junior League that she was about to become a divorcee. I was insignificant to Frances's life, she'd barely blink if I left. And Laura? She was _strong._ I knew it would be hard on her at first, but she'd get past it because that is who she was. There was nothing she couldn't do if she set her mind to it!"

Remington clenched his jaw, a muscle in it twitching, as he force backed the words he so badly wanted to shout at the man. She hadn't been fine, hadn't gotten past it… had _never_ gotten past it. The man had bloody well broken his own child, and he, Remington, was still paying the price for the man's deeds. He wanted to say all of that, but had to remind himself it wasn't his story to tell: It was Laura's and Laura's alone.

"So why now?" he asked instead.

"I've spent nearly another third of my life wondering about my daughters, particularly Laura," he answered immediately. "On trips to LA, I've seen her picture in the paper or mention of her a handful of times, mostly in relation to that agency of yours. She always said she wanted a career of some kind, not to be just another housewife. I see that she's succeeded, thanks to your tutelage." Remington frowned, recalling the many years he'd been given all the credit while Laura had most oft been named as 'unknown woman,' 'associate' and 'secretary.' He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

"To the contrary," he corrected, "It was she who trained me, and any success the Agency had in its early years was wholly through her efforts. You still haven't answered the question: Why now?" he pursued relentlessly.

"The Northridge earthquake," Jack answered with another shrug. "I knew she still lived in LA but had no idea if she'd been affected by the quake. Once things had calmed down a bit, I called the Agency. Your receptionist said she was with a client, offered to take my name and number. Assured she was safe, I told the woman I'd call back in a bit, but of course I never did." Remington swallowed, and drew a hand through his hair.

"Laura said you followed her from the office to our home," he pointed out.

"I did," Jack nodded his confirmation, "Although not until three weeks ago. As much as I had wondered about the girls over the past twenty years, I just couldn't get her off my mind after the earthquake. I went to our library, spent hours searching for any articles in the LA Times which mentioned her." He laughed quietly. "I gotta say, I never thought Laura would marry. When she was a kid she swore on her life that she'd never find herself in that 'trap.' I couldn't say that I blamed her," he added ruefully. "Abigail was relentless in her belief that a woman's sole job was to marry, raise a family and keep a proper house. She badgered the girl so much, Laura swore any number of times she'd never be like her mother, devoting her entire life to home and hearth. 'There's a whole world out there, Mother, and I have no intention of _ever_ falling into the wife and mother trap!' I can't to you how many times she must have said that to Abigail, and every time she did, steam would shoot right out of her mother's ears, she'd get so angry," he laughed as he shared the memory. Sobering, he gave Remington a look of approval. "You must be quite persuasive." The comment drew a low, slow, sardonic laugh from Remington as he ran a hand over his mouth.

"There's not a man or woman walking the earth who can persuade Laura Holt to do anything she's not inclined to do," he dismissed. "She'll take your suggestion under consideration and she'll never make mention of it again until she's decided. And then? Well, if whatever suggested doesn't fall in your favor, you'd have more success moving a mountain than changing her mind."

"Frances, _she_ was the one easily swayed. Laura?" Jack reminisced. "She always was the stubborn one."

"Hard-headed," Remington inserted, then said it again with emphasis, "Hard-headed." The two men shared a laugh. Jack was the first to sober as he realized what Remington was saying… What they were both saying. He sat down heavily on the nearest chair.

"So, that's that, then," he sighed. Remington leaned his backside against the dresser and shoving one hand in his pocket, stroked his chin with the other and shook his head in the negative.

"No, I don't believe that's the case," he disagreed, thoughtfully. "I don't think what happened on the beach is her decision, so much as it was shock. She's not a woman who appreciates things being thrust upon her unexpectedly. I'd wager once she gets over that, you'll hear from her. Whether she wants to or not, she'll allow you to give your explanations. She'll chew on them for days, perhaps weeks. _Then_ when she gives you her decision, she'll explain – in detail – as to why she arrived at the conclusion she did." Jack nodded his head rapidly.

"That's good to know."

"Mmm," Remington concurred with a hum. "I've questions of my own I'd like an answer to." The older man looked like he expected as much.

"Shoot."

"Exactly _how much_ a part of Laura's life do you wish to be?" Remington inquired, removing his hand from his pocket and gesturing with it, growing more animated as he went along. "Do you mean exchanging birthday and Christmas cards, ringing one another up once or twice a year, like old, distant friends? Or do you hope to have the family over for dinner, to attend all the important family functions and to bounce your grandchildren on your knee?"

"As much as she'll allow," Jack answered, honestly.

"For how long?" Remington jumped in, peppering the man with questions. "A few weeks or months until your curiosity about the children you left behind is assuaged? What happens the next time you feel like a failure or one of your daughters relies on you too much? Will you just walk away again?" Remington didn't miss the spark of anger in the man's eyes, before he sighed heavily.

"I'm starting to get the impression you don't care for me," Jack observed.

"I'm a man who measures people not by what they say, but by what they do," Remington provided. "I'm also a man who loves his wife beyond measure. I won't stand by and watch her harmed if I can prevent it." Jack held out his hands helplessly then clasped them together.

"If she's willing to give me a chance, I don't intend to walk out of her life again." He offered Remington a weak smile. "Well, at least until my number's called." Remington swiped a hand over mouth and his shoulders sagged with resignation as he looked around the small room.

"If you'll give me your address and telephone number, when Laura's ready to contact you, I'll see that she gets it. In the meantime, I'd suggest you go home. I'd wager it will be several days, at least, before you hear from her." With a grateful look upon his face, Jack crossed the room to the night stand and removed a pen and hotel memo pad from the drawer. He quickly scrawled the information requested on a sheet of paper, then tore it off and handed it to Remington.

"Thank you." Reluctantly, Remington took the hand offered in his and exchanged handshakes then walked briskly to the door. He halted, his back to Jack and raised a hand, palm facing the door.

"Laura's a remarkable woman. See to it that you remember it this time, should she give you another chance. If she does, it will be your last."

With those final words, he opened the hotel room door and strode out, never looking back.

* * *

"Alright girls," Laura announced, forcing a brightness into her voice she didn't feel. "Hot dogs, grilled cheese or chicken nuggets?" Livvie knelt on a barstool and leaned forward against her elbows, propping her chin in her hands.

"Da said we could make pizza," she informed her mother. Her back to the girls as she peered in the refrigerator, Laura scrunched her face, unseen. Homemade pizza was most definitely not on the short list of her edible accomplishments in the kitchen.

"Uh-huh," Sophie chimed in, mirroring Livvie's position at the bar. "Cheese for Holt, pepperoni and sausage for Livvie and veggie for me." Laura rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. _Of course he did_. Whipping up three pizzas for dinner was child's play for the man, whereas for her it would be a task of Herculean proportions requiring an extra dash of a miracle for any form of success. She forced a smile onto her face and turned to look at the girls.

"Well, Da had an unexpected errand to run after polo," Laura prevaricated, "So I'm afraid you're stuck with me. So what's it to be: chicken nuggets, hot dogs or grilled cheese?" Two crestfallen faces peered back at her.

"But Da asked what we wanted for dinner tonight and we said we wanted pizza," Livvie argued.

"And we all agreed," Sophie added, with an eager nod. _Well, the three of them in agreement wasn't exactly a small feat,_ Laura mentally conceded. Still…

"Yes, but—"

"I've wanted pizza forever and ever and ever," Livvie pressed

"And Da _promised,_ " Sophie upped the ante.

"Yes, but Da's not here," Laura repeated, "And I don't know how to make pizza." Livvie jumped down from the barstool and crossed the kitchen to the oven, then pulled open the door.

"We made the dough this morning with Da," she announced, indicating the cloth covered ceramic bowl inside the appliance.

"And that's the hardest part," Sophie offered. Her brows furrowed as she concentrated on remembering the other times they'd made pizza. "You only have to roll the dough, make the sauce—"

"And Sophie and me do the cheese," Olivia contributed.

"And Holt helps put everything on our pizzas," Sophie finished. Laura looked from one hopeful face to the other and waffled.

"I don't even know how to make the sauce," she admitted. Sophie scrambled down from her seat, and going to a cabinet beneath the island, pulled out the small box.

"Da wrote down how to make it in here," she offered, helpfully. While the girls might not understand, _she_ understood all too well how many times she'd attempted to make spaghetti sauce using these very cards – and how disastrous the results had been.

"We could just order in," she suggested. She watched as Olivia's shoulders slumped and Sophie's face fell.

"No," Livvie refused, wistfully. "We like to make our pizza."

"We like to eat our pizza," Sophia added, dejectedly. Laura turned to the only ally she might have in the debate: Holt, who'd thus far had been content to sit on his barstool and watch everyone else.

"What do you say, little man? We could order pizza and go back outside and _play_ for a little while longer." At this point, a little bit of bribery wasn't beneath her. If she could sway Holt to her side, then she'd need only one of the girls to come to join them.

"I like to make pissa," he answered, with wide-eyed innocence. She grimaced openly this time, conceding she'd lost the battle, then blew out a puff of air as she reached for an apron.

"Alright," she drew out the word, "Pizza it is."

"Yay!" came a trio of joyous cries. She forced yet another smile onto her face, while silently muttering, _You're cheering now. Just wait…_

Slipping the loop of the apron around her neck, she wrapped the sash around her back and tied it in front. She collected the heavy ceramic bowl of dough from the oven and brought it to the island setting down as she searched her memory for the one or two times she'd stuck around to watch Remington make homemade pizza with the children. The days when she'd perched on the island while Remington cooked were long past, for the most part, as dinner preparations had become a father-children ritual. Flour. She'd need flour to roll out the dough. The roller.

"You have to turn on the oven, Mommy, so it's hot," Livvie's sweet voice reminded her.

"And you have to put the pizza stone in," Sophie advised. She looked from oven to children back to oven again.

"You wouldn't happen to know what temperature, would you?" Holt merely grinned in answer, Sophie shook her head, while Livvie held out both hands to her side, palms up and shrugged.

"I dunno. Da does it. We can't play with the oven or stove," her firstborn provided not so helpfully.

"Well, let's see what the recipe card says then, huh?" She thumbed through the box, removing the recipe for the sauce as she went, then thumbed through a second time. _Of course not_. The box was devoid of a recipe for the pizza itself. Well, she'd just have to make an educated guess. She stared at the temperature control which spanned from two-hundred to five-hundred degrees, and set the temperature dead in the middle at three-fifty.

"You have to put the stone in," Sophie reminded again.

"I know," Laura replied. In fact, she'd already forgotten about the stone. Removing it from its storage area beneath the island, she slid it into the oven then returned to the dough. She was halted, as she reached for it, by another point of guidance from Olivia.

"You have to make the sauce first or it won't be ready. And me and Sophie has to do the cheese."

"Alright." Another lengthened word in response, as she picked up the recipe card: One can tomato sauce, 1 can tomato paste; 1 teaspoon olive oil; ½ teaspoon sugar…

 _Sugar? Really? Who'd have thought._

…minced garlic, salt, pepper and oregano to taste. Well, how hard could that really be? She fished through the cabinets and refrigerator for the ingredients, adding a block of mozzarella and Romano cheeses to the rest. A pair of plates and a grater set before each of the girls completed the necessities. As she opened cans and emptied them into the sauce pan, added the sugar and vegetable oil, the girls began their jobs and grated cheese. She minced two cloves of garlic and added it to the now bubbling liquid, then after giving it some thought, added a third. A dash of salt, a few turns of the pepper mill and a trio of pinches of oregano and the sauce was simmering on the stove. She returned her attention to the dough.

 _Flour. I'll need flour to roll out the dough_ , she recalled. She was reaching for the flour canister when Remington entered the kitchen.

"What have we here?" he wondered aloud, his eyes quickly scanning his kitchen for any lasting damages.

"Da!" Livvie cried out gleefully. "We're making pizza, just like you said!" He raised a pair of brows at his dark haired, blue eyed little girl.

"So I see." Stepping behind Laura he laid his hands on her waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'm sorry," he apologized in a whisper next to her ear. She reached back over her shoulder to lay a hand on his cheek.

"I am, too," she replied softly. That pat against her hip, indicating all was forgiven, brought a smile to her face, and she leaned slightly into him.

"Well, let's see where we're at, eh?" he addressed the family as a whole. With a final press of his cheek to the side of Laura's head, he stepped away. Opening the fridge, he removed a block of parmesan and placed it in front of Sophie with a small saucer. "There you are, a thaisce." A head of romaine he'd washed then chilled that morning was set before Holt, along with a large wood bowl. "You know what to do, son." Holt nodded happily, and yanked off a leaf, before carefully tearing it in pieces and dropping the torn lettuce in the bowl. The oven was turned up to four-seventy-five, opened to confirm the stone was in place, then closed. As Laura stepped away from the counter to remove her apron, he leaned over the stove and sampled the sauce with a spoon. He coughed and cleared his throat, then without ceremony removed the pan from the burner and set it in the sink.

"It's that bad?" Laura inquired, crestfallen.

"Not at all," he assured as he placed a new pan on the burner and collected ingredients, then added, "So long as one enjoys taking a bite out of a head of garlic as one might an apple." She crossed her arms, and tipped up her chin.

"Well that's your recipe's fault," she accused smugly, "Not mine." He laughed quietly, and lifted a single brow at her.

"Oh? Do tell." She walked to the island and snatched up the recipe card. "'…minced garlic, salt, pepper and oregano to taste,'" she read aloud in an indicting tone.

"Mmm," he hummed, unperturbed. "And did you? Taste?" Her chin raised a notch again, mutinously.

"Well, no but—" Her protest was ended when a arm wrapped itself around her waist, and he spun her to him, covering her lips with his. Sophie giggled while Livvie huffed.

"They're kissing… _again_ ," she noted, in a scolding tone. Remington chuckled against Laura's lips at his daughter's commentary, as Laura pushed herself away from him.

"I'd wager Mommy didn't enjoy that kiss much, a stór," he joked, as Laura wiped at her mouth.

"No, she _didn't,_ " she concurred. The man's mouth had been a garlic bath. "I'll stir the sauce. You…" she jabbed a finger against his chest then pointed to the kitchen doorway, "Mouthwash."

"Taste, love, it's everything, in cooking," he lifted a pair of brows at her, "and in kissing." He dared to steal another kiss from her, that again left her rubbing at her mouth as he left the room, laughing.


	9. Chapter 6: Still Steaming It Up

_**A/N1: This chapter contains NC-17 content. If uncomfortable with such material or under the age of 18, please continue to Chapter 7.**_

 _ **A/N2: This chapter has inspired a new addition to the Canon series/Steele Steamy stories. Steele in Hot Water will feature 5-6 short stories spanning the Steele's marriage. The first installment will be uploaded Weds or Thurs.**_

* * *

Chapter 6: Still Steaming It Up

Remington tugged open the shower door and stepped inside, letting the hot spray of the water wash over head and body. The day had taken its toll on Laura and she had begged off of their Saturday night date, opting instead for a quiet night at home. With the children tucked in their beds, soundly asleep, he'd rung up Pierre at L'Ornate and had ordered dinner and a suitable bottle of wine. Fred had been dispatched some ten minutes ago to pick up their meals and would be arriving at the Steele home within the hour.

Good food, great wine, a night of quiet conversation before the fire on the terrace, perhaps a bit of dancing as the waves crashed against the shore below…

The irony that he saw a quiet evening in with his wife as the perfect evening was not lost on him. Only a dozen years before, it had been his habit to stay out of an evening until the sunrise painted the—

His thoughts sputtered to a stop when the door to the shower opened and said wife, bare as he, stepped in. The hungry gleam in her eyes took his breath away. His tongue flickered out and wet his lips, as she slowly closed in on him. A pair of small hands stroked upwards beginning at his fingertips, over his arms, then shoulder and neck, before diving into his hair. Pressing up on her tiptoes, she trailed kisses down his neck.

"I love you," she breathed against his skin.

Well, if having the woman you love's lithe, nude form rubbing against you, as water sluiced over both your bodies and a talented mouth suckled beneath your ear wasn't enough to arouse you, to feel her body vibrating with need against yours would certainly do the trick. An arm laced around her slim waist, and he gathered her close.

"I love you," he breathed against the top of her head.

She wriggled in his grasp to put space between them, and he watched, enchanted, as she drew the fingertips of one hand up his thigh, over his hip, across his abdomen before pausing to dance through the thick mat of hair on his chest as she lowered her head and drew a nipple into her mouth.

"Laura," he moaned aloud.

As much as he cherished their tender lovemaking, their playful sex, at times like these when her appetite for him raged as his perpetually did for her… Well, it did magnificent things for a man.

At least this one.

Her mouth glided from one nipple to the other, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. A hand whispered over a cheek of his water slickened bum, drawing another low moan from his throat.

"Laura…"

"Tell me what you want," she murmured, her breath against his aroused nipple sending shivers coursing over his skin.

To think he'd once believed sex would become boring… ordinary… unappealing, if you indulged too long with any one woman. Truth be told, there were any number of women in his past that a singular encounter would satisfy his lust and he'd gladly be on his way before the sweat on his skin had dried.

But this woman? He burned for her, endlessly. His heart still beat a little faster every time he saw her for the first time of a day. He still got butterflies in the pit of his stomach when her brown eyes glimmered up at him with love or approval or humor… or desire. His blood still hummed every time he kissed her, savored her flavor, the soft, sweetness of her lips. Peace still washed over him every night when they fell to sleep, her body nestled against his in one way or the other.

And when his body was buried deep within the hot depths of hers…

It was still surreal. Wondrous. It still left every nerve ending in his body sparking. He still felt utter… relief… to be able to share this with her, to be a part of her.

And when she was the aggressor, as she was now, he never felt more accepted, more wanted, more needed.

Her fingers tangled in his hair and she tugged his head downwards. He moaned into her mouth, one hand tangling in her hair, the arm wrapping fully around her again, clutching her body to his.

"Tell me what you want, Remington," she whispered against his lips, then kissed him again.

She loved when he surrendered fully to his senses, for it was very rare that he did. With a will of steel, he normally tried to stay present with her, to engage her, to read her face and body language to find what it was _she_ needed. But there were times when she managed to catch him off guard and it was in those moments that he was most vulnerable, least able to maintain his control.

Like now. The way his eyes had been closed, his head thrown back, his breath coming in short gasps… the way his fingers flexed against her bottom… all said he was lost in the whirlwind of feelings crashing over him. She needed to bring him back to her, just a little bit, so that he could engage. When her teeth nibbling on his lip, her lips caressing his, her tongue gliding over his, failed to do the trick, she pulled out one of the newer tricks from her bag.

"Inis dom cad ba mhaith leat, Remington," she whispered against his mouth again. _Tell me what you want._

"Touch me," he gasped.

She kissed him again as she walked him backwards until his back rested against the wall of the shower. He lost track of her hand, and then, suddenly, there it was, encircling his hardened shaft, moving up its length. He moaned against her lips. When her hand eased back the foreskin and she swirled her thumb over the engorged tip, he tore his lips from hers, threw back his head, and wrapped his free arm around her, his knees threatening to buckle.

"Like this?" she questioned huskily.

"Yes," he murmured.

She dropped a kiss against his shoulder…

Then disappeared.

"Or like this?"

He jolted when she slipped the tip of his shaft between her lips and lightly suckled.

"My God, Laura," he panted.

She sucked, nibbled and licked while her hand stroked him until his body began to shake with need.

Then she, paused, released him from her mouth and a pair of sultry brown eyes met his passionate saturated blue ones. She said the words that he needed to hear.

"Ba mhaith liom tú." _I want you._

When he reached for her hands, she gained her feet more than willingly, latching her mouth to his and wrapping her legs around his waist when he lifted her. With her back braced against the shower wall, he positioned himself at her entrance.

"Laura…"

"Remington…"

Her back arched, her fingers clenched at his shoulders when he entered her in one, swift stroke. With his body buried deep within hers, he stilled, stroked a hand along the curve of her waist.

"Tá tú álainn," he murmured. _You are beautiful._

His hand skimmed over her skin as he admired the golden tan of her stomach, shoulders and arms which provided a stark contrast to the alabaster globes of her pink tipped breasts, protected from the sun's rays by the modest bikinis she was inclined to wear. He leaned in to taste the dapples of cinnamon sugar sprinkled over her shoulders and sternum, as the fingers of a hand teased a taunt nipple.

He'd rediscovered his restraint, and that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him consumed by sensation and feeling. She wanted this to be far more about him, than her. His body moving in hers would be all she needed to take her to the stars on this night. She didn't want or need the generous lover who normally was determined to see her shatter once, twice, three times because of the magnificent things he was doing to her.

She drew her hands threw his hair, down his neck, then dragged her nails softly down his back, while grinding her hips against him. A finger dipped into the apex of the cheeks of his bum, and toyed with the sensitive spot there, while her other hand retreated upwards where her fingers danced through the hair on his chest, and teased his nipples. His sharp intake of breath against her breast and the sudden quaking of his body told her that her goal was near at hand. She shifted up and away, making him shudder again when his body left the warmth of hers. Finding purchase on her feet as a pair of confused and frustrated blue eyes watched, she turned to the wall, pressing her palms against it, and wiggled her shapely bottom.

An invitation, he knew.

A tremor passed through him, and as she braced herself against the wall, he circled one arm around her hips and waist, as he took his shaft in hand and guided it into place. A firm thrust left him buried in her warmth yet again.

This time, there would be no opportunity for his restraint to restore itself. She met him thrust for thrust, circling her hips, driving him mad. She shifted slightly to maximize the pleasure for both of them, making him gasp her name.

"Laura…"

Still she drove his desire higher and higher.

He loved it when she was vocal during sex, so this time she set herself fully free, humming, crying out, not minimizing her own gasps of pleasure.

"So good…"

"More…"

"Harder…"

She slipped a hand between her legs to caress his sac each time he thrust forward. His jaw clenched, as he fought off his own orgasm, wanting her to find hers as he did his own. He pounded against her, harder, faster.

Her hand left him and slapped against the wall for support. She moaned aloud as the climax crashed over her, as she felt her muscles clamping down around him as he continued to move.

"Remington… Oh, God…"

His moan of pleasure joined hers, as he buried his shaft to the hilt, and the powerful orgasm racked his body while he poured himself into her.

"Laura…"

When the last of their shudders subsided, he tugged her backwards. Bodies still joined, he fondled her breasts as she turned her head, so her lips could find his waiting ones. A twitch of her hips set him free and she turned fully into his arms… and the kiss. They savored one another's taste for a long minute, before he ended the kiss, and walked her under the spray then turned her until her back faced him.

"That was…" He found himself at a loss for words, and settled for dropping a kiss onto her shoulder as he reached for her favored her shampoo.

"Mmmm, yes, it _was_ ," she concurred, humming again when he lathered her hair. "Mmmm, that feels wonderful."

"It seems a night in is exactly what the doctor ordered, eh?"

"It _is,_ " she agreed again. "Dare I ask what's for dinner?" He chuckled quietly behind her. Much like her appetite for him hadn't waned over years, she was still very much a woman who appreciated being fed well.

"Scallops Florentine to start, followed by Fleckerl with red peppers accompanied by a crisp Spanish wine Pierre recommends highly," he provide. He admired her still trim frame when she turned to rinse the shampoo from her hair. "I thought we might dine on the terrace. A fire, a little music, a light breeze…" he allowed her imagination to fill in the rest.

"I'll set the table," she offered, approving the suggestion, "Although," she drew out the word as she looked up at him with a bemused pair of brown eyes, "If you were planning to lay the scene of a seduction, I think I've already checked that off the list."

"I wasn't. But if you continue to do that…" he indicated her arched back that made her breasts more prominent "…while looking like that…" he waved his hand up and down her body "…I might need to reconsider." As far as he was concerned, one of the best side benefits of a beach front home were the perpetual tan lines Laura sported that framed a pair of delicious breasts and shapely bum. Turning her back to him, she laughed low in her throat, as she looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Twice in one night?" she teased. "Are you sure you're up to it? You are, after all…" She pretended to search for the right words "…How did Daniel once put it? Oh, yeah, getting a little long in the tooth." She yelped when a hand came down on her bottom. She turned around to face him, resting her fists on her hips in feigned affront.

"Am I to understand you are calling me _old?"_ She gave him a pert grin.

"Well, if the birth certificate fits…" she offered, as she reached for her bottle of conditioner. Plucking the bottle from her hand, he turned her back around. In truth, their love life was still quite… vigorous.. for a couple who'd been married eight years, one of who was on the other side of forty and the other quickly approaching. They might not make love _every_ night, but pretty close. As for their all night love making sessions? Well, those had become more rare and not because of age but because being parents of three small children, they'd learn to appreciate sleep.

"Need I remind you that not so magical milestone you're referring to is just around the bend for yourself as well?" he countered, as he weaved the conditioner through her locks.

"Ahhhh, but I'm a woman. We age gracefully." He frowned at the back of her head.

"I do believe I am beginning to feel insulted, Mrs. Steele," he groused. "Turn around and rinse," he directed. "What is it you are saying exactly? That I, myself, have not aged so gracefully?" She allowed her eyes to slowly peruse his frame as she rinsed her hair, lingering long enough at it that he began to shift on his feet. It was one thing to be admired fully dressed, but even he might blush if her naked assessment of his nude form continued much longer. Wringing the water from her hair, she shook her head, then stepped to him.

"I think," she said the words slowly, while tracing a hand up an arm and over his shoulder, "That you, _Mr. Steele_ , are aging like a fine brandy, becoming richer and more refined as the years go by." A wide grin split his face. She'd stroked his vanity, and he was more than pleased.

"You think so, hmmmm?" he hummed, stepping close and gathering her in his arms.

"I tell you what," she tapped him with a single finger to the chin, "When I stop wanting to share a shower with you, then you can worry about how you are aging. But until then, you'll have to trust that…" she pushed up on her tiptoes and let her lips hover close to his as she looked him straight in the eye "…I find you sexy as hell," she whispered. Open eyed she touched her lips to his. "Finish your shower." With those final words, she slipped from his arms and out the shower door, closing it behind her.

The smile on his face wouldn't leave until hours later…


	10. Chapter 7: The Story of A Sled

Chapter 7: The Story of A Sled

Laura lay with an arm behind her head, a glass of white wine held in her other hand, enjoying the spontaneous foot rub Remington was giving here from where he lay on the opposite side of the hammock, facing her. Two years ago Remington had surprised her with two pairs of free standing hammocks to replace the hammock they'd hung when they'd first moved into Casa Malaga. Lazy summer afternoons spent swaying in the hammock, talking, napping had begun with the two of them. They'd made room for Livvie after she was born, then Sophie, when she joined their family. When Holt had come along they, as a family, had at last outgrown it. Now, a pair stood in the shade under the pergola, and the second pair took a place of honor near the fireplace.

It wasn't the first night they'd spent in exactly this position, not by a long shot, and it wouldn't be the last.

"I heard from the contractor today," Remington announced. Laura took a sip of her wine and raised her brows at him.

"Oh?"

"Looks like I'll be needing to take a trip to Vail at the end of next week." He patted her on the sole of her foot a few times, then set it down and leaned over to retrieve his wineglass off the ground.

"Will the house be done?" He took a sip of his wine, then nodded his head.

"It will." He studied her for several heartbeats. "I was thinking perhaps you and I could make a long weekend of it. Leave out Wednesday after work. Thursday we could sign off on the changes, then Friday get all the new furniture situated, which would leave the weekend to, perhaps, celebrate a certain occasion?" She took a sip of her wine and pursed her lips.

"And what occasion is that?" He slapped a hand against his chest, and feigned pain.

"First my virility and now my very arrival in your life? You are truly a cruel woman." She merely wagged her brows in answer.

"And the children?"

"Father and Catherine will be here on Tuesday. You know how much they enjoy their time alone with the children, and they'll have Lina and Mildred to pitch in, as well as Fred to do the afternoon pickups, as he does now," he rattled off, already having sorted it out in his own mind before pitching the idea to her.

"I'd love to," she agreed, simply. His dazzling, approving smile made her smile in return.

"Whatever happened to the woman I couldn't pry away from the Agency?" he teased. They hadn't managed to steal away together this year, but the last handful of times he'd asked for a long weekend together, he'd arrived with argument in hand only to find it was unnecessary.

"Well," she drew out the word, then took a sip of her wine before continuing, "We have a full staff now that can be left in Mildred's capable hands for a few days. The children can do without us for a few days and will be thrilled to have Granddad and Grans staying with them," she snorted a laugh, "Although I'm sure Livvie will be a bit put out when she realizes Lina will also be in charge." Remington laughed softly and nodded his head. Livvie loved her Thea Lina – and vice versa – but Aunt and niece butted heads often thanks to their stubborn natures. "The idea of being able to sleep in as late as we want for a few days is definitely appealing. Then there's the most important thing…"

"What's that?" he asked quickly. She smiled coyly at him and lifted a pair of saucy brows.

"It's been far too long since the last time I had your body at my fingertips all night long….without a stitch of clothing between them and your skin." She slipped her hand beneath the cuff of his pants and rubbed his shin, emphasizing her point. The Steele household had long been a non 'clothing optional to sleep' home. Closed bedroom door or not, one never knew what to expect from children in the middle of the night.

"Mmmm, yes, I agree. It's been far too long." He took a long drink of his wine, then leaned over and sat the glass on the ground, before picking up Laura's other foot to massage it. "I'll make the flight and car reservations tomorrow."

"Any regrets?" she wondered aloud.

When they had returned from the house in Vail after New Year's, Remington had approached her with a proposal: Rather than going to Vail the day after Christmas each year, as had been the Steele tradition, how would she feel about arriving a few days prior and spending the entirety of the holidays there, making Christmas and New Years in Vail the new Steele tradition. He'd intended to leave her with the thought for her to masticate upon, but she'd peppered him with a series of questions instead.

"What about midnight Mass with the family?" It was yet another Steele tradition that had been established: Midnight mass on Christmas Eve with the Pipers. It was an event that both families had come to look forward to over the years.

"Well, I had an idea," he introduced with caution. One never knew how she might take to a change in plans all but set in stone, especially a change she might view as diminishing the magic of her favorite holiday. "I spoke with Donald and given they are no more tied to LA during the holidays than we are, they'd simply join us in Vail for the holidays." Then, before she could bring up her next point, he hastily added, "And Abigail as well, of course. As for Midnight Mass, we'll still attend, just at Vail Chapel."

"And Thomas and Catherine?"

"Now, Laura, Father and Catherine will follow the children wherever they might go," he answered in a tone suggesting she'd lost her mind by even asking the question. "They don't care where we celebrate the holiday so long as we're all together." Instead of appearing placated that he had all the answers to her questions thus far, as he'd anticipated, her face fell in disappointment.

"The children look forward to the week we spend in Vail with the Henderson's," she pointed out. "They'll be crushed if—"

"Which is precisely why they'll be joining us," he stepped in, before she could finish the thought. Her eyes widened at the statement.

"They _will_?"

"Mmmmm," he confirmed with a hum. "Except for every other year, of course, when they spend Christmas with Jocelyn's family. Then they'll simply fly into Vail as they do now." He'd been awaiting the next question, when she finally got around to asking it.

"And exactly where are all these people going, Mr. Steele? Monroe and Joceyln, Donald and Frances, Thomas and Catherine and Mother will all need their own rooms. That's already one more bedroom than we have, unless we intend to give up our own. And even then, there's still the matter of the…" she did the quick math "… _eleven_ children with nowhere to sleep."

"Seventeen, children that is," he corrected. She planted her fists on her hips.

"And who is having septuplets between now and Christmas?" she inquired, sarcastically. A smile quirked at his lips.

"No one I should hope. I was thinking more along the lines of a true open house over the holidays." Her eyes narrowed on him.

"What _exactly_ do you mean by a ' _true_ open house'?"

"I thought we'd extend an invitation to Murphy, Bernice and Mildred to join us when they are freed from familial obligations." She couldn't deny the idea appealed to her – their friends and family joining them for all or part of the holiday. Still, she didn't budge an inch, pursuing the accommodations issue.

"We're already short one bedroom for the adults, and now you are speaking of as many as three more."

"Four, actually, should you count Lina, which I do." He walked over to his desk and pulled his sketchbook from the top drawer. Opening it, he thumbed through to the appropriate page. "Come, have a look," he encouraged. With trepidation, she joined him next to the desk, and leaned down to look at the sketch he'd opened the book to. One glimpse and she immediately reared back, mouth hanging open and eyes widened.

"Have you finally lost your mind, Mr. Steele?" she demanded to know. He held up a hand in defense.

"Just… hear me out." He hadn't expected she'd simply agree and was prepared to defend his suggestion. But Laura was nothing if not fair: She'd listen to what he had to say before poking holes in his idea and ultimately shooting him down.

"Alright," she agreed with a good deal of reluctance.

"Our property is large, seven acres in total," he reminded her. "We build two guest houses, so to speak, here…" he pointed "…and here…" he indicated another spot. "We connect them to the house with private paths. Technically, I suppose you'd refer to these two additions as townhouses, with two units in each building: Four bedrooms, two baths on one side; two bedrooms two bath on the other. Each, of course, would have a small kitchen for convenience's sake, and a living area. The larger units would be ideal for the Henderson's and Michaels, while one of the smaller units could be Abigail's – you know how much she enjoys a bit of private time – and the other could be used by Bernice and Jason when they visit." She pursed her lips then shook her head.

"We'd still be short a bedroom for adults, not to mention rooms for Frances's children and our own," she pointed out.

"Which is where the expansion to the house comes in. We add on here…" he indicated a spot on the opposite side of the house from their own master suite. "Downstairs we add a master suite that mirrors our own for Father and Catherine, along with bedrooms of the same size as the ones currently upstairs for Mildred and Rusty – you know how Mildred enjoys being in the thick of things, so to speak - as well as Lina. Then upstairs, we add six new bedrooms – think of it as a children's wing, if you will - same design and layout as those already there just slightly smaller – minus the hot tubs for the children's rooms, of course." Her brows knitted together.

"That would be nine bedrooms upstairs. Donald and Frances would only need one for themselves, two for the children. Even if you consider two rooms for Livvie, Sophie and Holt, that leaves four rooms. Why add rooms we don't need?"

"Because we will, need them that is." She stood erect and those hands found her hips again.

"How do you figure that?"

"Christos and Helena are speaking of coming to visit for Christmas this year, Marcos and Elena as well." She forgot his proposal for a moment and smiled wide. "They are?"

"Mmmm," he confirmed with a hum. "They are."

"The children will be thrilled," she noted. "And Zeth and Calista?"

"Calista's parents would have their heads should they not be there for the holiday, but Zeth has already made mention of visiting around New Year's next year." She bent down again to look at the plans.

"So Donald and Frances, Christos and Helena, then Marcos and Elena in the three current suites."

"Precisely," he smiled proudly.

"And how, exactly, do you intend to pay for all of this? You're not only speaking of extending the house—"

"Actually, uh, there's more," he interrupted to share, tugging at an ear nervously. She turned to look at him, then stood up slowly.

"There's more," she repeated, dumbfounded. He nodded his head rapidly. She threw her hands up in the air. "How can there _possibly_ be more?" she demanded to know.

"We can't possibly fit everyone into the current dining or living room, so an expansion on the side of the house our suite is on as well," he explained, returning to his sketch. "We'll gut the house from the kitchen over. The wall to the library would be torn down, expanding the current dining room to allow a dining table that will seat twenty comfortably, then we'll add three smaller tables for the children here…" he indicated the area where the library was currently located. We'll build a new library next to the master, as it is now and of course a new master—"

"I happen to _like_ our current bedroom, Remington," she interrupted to object.

"So we rebuild it exactly as it currently stands," he reasoned. She clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to return her attention to the plans. "We move _and_ enlarge the kitchen, then all this space…" he swirled his finger around the paper, "…becomes expanded living space, that will allow us to accommodate everyone." Finished, he looked up at her, hopefully.

"Is that all?" she asked in a tone that wasn't favorable to him. His shoulders slumped.

"For the most part."

"So, again, I have to ask: How do you intend for us to pay for this? We're not speaking of 'just' building two guest houses or even of expanding the current house. There's furnishings to consider as well." She did the quick math. "Furniture for…" her face blanched at the thought "Twenty-one…" She stabbed a finger at the air in emphasis, " _Twenty-one_ bedrooms, four living rooms, additional furnishings for our current living room and dining room, not to mention the little matters of linens for all those bedrooms and seventeen…" she felt slightly dizzy saying the number "… seventeen new bathrooms, just to start!"

"Just finish hearing me out," he requested, "Please."

"Alright," she agreed, reluctantly.

"I've done some research. It will cost roughly three hundred thousand to build the two houses, inclusive of adding a hot tub and pool to each of the units, furnishings and appliance another fifty or so—"

"That's three-hundred-and-fifty- _thousand_ dollars, Mr. Steele!" she pointed out, appalled.

"When you figure in gating and driveways, closer to four, actually," he corrected, then held a finger in the air, "But, we are one of a limited number of ski-in, ski-out properties in the area."

"Soooooo? It's still four-hundred- _thousand_ dollars!"

"Which will pay for itself in three short years," he argued, getting a bit tweaked that she'd not let him finish.

"And exactly _how_ do you figure that?" she demanded.

"Actually, I was hoping you'd ask." He rounded his desk to get a pencil from his drawer then returned to her side. "The houses would be built on the high ridge here. Doing so will provide not only magnificent views, but will still retain the ski-in/ski-out amenity so many seek. We build a stone and wrought iron fence along here…" he drew a dotted line from the road to the houses, " so that when we're not in residence, the main house remains secure. But when we are, a gate here…" he pointed "…and here, will be left open to allow free access with only a short walk down the lighted paths we'll install. Ski season is twenty-two weeks. We are only in residence for three of those weeks. According to the pair of real estate agents I spoke with, we can guarantee occupancy all nineteen other weeks, with the four bedrooms renting for between seventeen-fifty and two-thousand a weekend, or twenty-three hundred to twenty-eight hundred a week, whereas the two bedrooms will go for fifteen-hundred and two-thousand a weekend or week respectively. Even if we use the lower figures, deduct utilities, cleaning services and realtor fees, within four years those properties not only pay for themselves, but begin adding to our nest egg." She found it difficult to argue with the logic behind his reasoning. His investments, real estate and otherwise, had, after all, fattened that very nest egg considerably across the years.

"And the house?" He tugged at that ear again.

"A quarter—"

"Of the cost to build _two houses?_ " she cut in, flabbergasted.

"A quarter of a million is what I was going for, actually," he deadpanned.

"A quarter…" she sat down, hard, on the chair behind her. Setting down the pencil, he turned and propped his back side against the desk. "I don't know."

"It's not as though we can't afford it," he reminded.

"Now," she drew out the word, "But who knows what the future may bring?" she argued. "The stock market could crash like it did when my Mother was a child, or the housing market could go bust. We have three children, their educations and beyond to think of, not to mention our own retirement one day." She stood, shaking her head. "The houses are one thing. You've come up with a way to recoup our investment within a relatively short period of time. You figure out a way to pay for the expansion to the house without touching our savings, investments or taking out a loan and we'll talk." One glance at him told her he was prepared to go into a full blown pout. "Unless you want to rent out the house as well when we're not in residence." He only became more surly at the suggestion.

"You know how I feel about strangers sleeping in our bed, Laura," he sulked.

"Then let me know if you find a solution and we'll talk."

With that bit of finality, she'd left his office and had returned to hers.

Three months later, as they lay in lounge chairs on the deck of their house in Theoule Sur Mer watching as the children played in the pool, he found the solution.

"Laura, do you like it here?" he wondered, pensively. Two years prior they'd begun coming to France on the children's spring break, and they had, on occasion over the years, taken a few days themselves here while Thomas and Catherine spent time with their grandchildren in England. She turned her head to look at him

"It matters to you, so it matters to me," she answered simply. He knew a tap dance when he saw one and he wasn't playing along.

"And should it not matter to me?" he pressed. She considered him at length, then with a sigh returned her eyes to the children.

"It's not my favorite place…" she hedged.

"Why not?" He jumped on the admission.

"Don't you know?" She, in turn, tossed the ball right back into his court. His brows knitted together as he contemplated the question.

It hadn't taken much time for him to come to the correct conclusion. Cannes had never been kind, in terms of their relationship. The first time they'd visited, she'd ended them. Angry, disappointed…. even injured… by her decision, he'd nonetheless seen it as his due for failing to trust her, for trying to pull another fast one. True, he'd proposed to her here in Cannes, but even that evening had a taint upon it in the forms of Roselli and Felicia. It was here in Cannes she'd first discovered exactly how depraved the man was, yet neither of them had imagined the man would one day kidnap and torture her.

He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, then held on to it.

"I want to sell it," he announced. That statement drew her eyes back to him.

"That's not necessary," she told him calmly. In the back of her mind, she'd worried if he'd put two-and-two together he'd sacrifice one of the last things he had connecting him to Daniel, rather than chancing her reliving any part of their past here in Cannes, particularly Roselli. He laughed low in his throat, and dragged his free hand through his hair.

"Believe me, wishing to sell is not as self-sacrificing as you seem to believe, love," he told her in a low voice, lest the children overhear. "It's hard, Laura. I know it's just a house, but every time we are here, it's simply a reminder of what I've lost and what will never be." He looked at the children as Sophie and Livvie paddle around the pool, and Holt splashed water towards them from the stairs. His voice grew hoarse. "They'll never know him… and I think they would have loved him, a great deal." This time it was her who squeezed his hand. He cleared his throat and forced a cheerful tone when he spoke again. "Besides, we've already a beach home and island home. The proceeds from the sale of the villa could be put to much better use."

"What did you have in mind?" This time when he turned to face her, he sported a very real smile.

"It would fund the expansion to the house in Vail, to start. And the remainder could pay for spring break trips that would allow the children to see more of the world: Hawaii, Tahiti, Paris, Rome. The opportunities would be endless." He wagged his brows at her. "All without touching that nest egg you're so concerned about."

"If I ask you something, will you answer me honestly?" It was rare that she qualified questions such as that these days, but there was every chance, given the subject, that he'd try to avoid answering unless she did so.

"What is it you'd like to know?" was his tacit agreement.

"Why is it so important to you? This huge holiday open house affair?" she waved a hand as she searched for the words.

"Because it's the story of a sled," he answered, truthfully, but with the lift of a single brow that defied her to remember.

As if she could ever forget. It had been one of the most poignant stories of his childhood that he'd ever shared with her.

* * *

 _ **"I saw this father and his son. They were walking in the snow, hand-in-hand. The boy was about my age… ten or eleven. He had a sled, and - I don't know why - I followed them. I told myself it was for the sled, I was going to snatch it from the boy, sell it for a couple of quid, see if I could buy myself a place to kip that night. But that wasn't it at all. I just wanted to see…"**_

 _ **"What?"**_

 _ **"They went up the steps. Small house, nothing fancy. If I hung over the railings, I could look into the front room. There was a Christmas tree. Presents. Not a lot. People. Smiling. All warm and…loving."**_

* * *

He wanted the dream: Friends and family gathered around the hearth, laughing and smiling, as a fire burned bright and warm, and snow fell outside.

"Then that's all that matters. Let's do it."

Now, nearly seven months later, the project they'd taken on would be complete. The furniture had been ordered weeks before, and was only awaiting a delivery date.

"Not a single regret," he answered her now, with no equivocation. Releasing her foot, he retrieved his glass of wine, enjoyed another pair of sips, then sat it back down. When he held out a hand, she took it and shifted in the hammock until she sat between his legs then reclined back against his chest – a balancing act, for certain, but one done with practiced ease. Automatically, his hands began searching out the knots in her shoulders, aiming to relieve the tension. With a resigned sigh, she addressed the topic they'd circled around all evening.

"I called Frances." She felt him nod behind her, as his fingers found a particularly tender spot, making her draw in a sharp breath.

"Do tell," he encouraged. She lifted a hand and dropped it, indicating her frustration.

"There's nothing really _to_ tell. I told her, she asked why he'd shown up after all these years, I said I didn't know, she suggested I should tell Mother, and I ended the call." She puffed out a breath, then huffed, "I'm sure they'll be plenty of discussion and even more questions tomorrow at lunch." Swallowing hard, Remington prepared to serve himself up to her. On the way home from the Downtowner he'd debated with himself over the wisdom of concealing his visit with Jack from Laura. There were a hundred reasons not to tell her – most notably that formidable temper of hers being directed fully at him – but there was one reason to tell her that trumped all the reasons not to: She'd always forgiven misdeeds and missteps immediately, but it was only when he'd tried to hide those things from her that she shut him out. Better to have a furious Laura on his hands than a polite, detached Laura. He licked suddenly dry lips, and forced the words out.

"Speaking of your father—"

"I wasn't speaking of him," she cut him off, "I was speaking about Frances. How was your polo match?" There were days she wasn't sure why she did or said the things she did and said. That was the case now. She'd been waiting for the opportunity to talk to him about her father's sudden reappearance, yet she'd steadfastly avoided the topic all evening.

"We won, although I left before the last chukker began," he shared. He saw another opportunity to confess, and didn't let it pass him by. "Laura, I—"

"I'm sorry," she pressed her hands to her face in remorse. "I was out of line." A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, well, I have to say I can certainly understand the sting of those particular words now that I've been on the receiving end," he admitted, with the smile in his voice. "But you might wish to save the apologies for a—"

"Despite what you may think, I haven't been waiting for the perfect time to throw those words back at you for all these years." His smile disappeared and he frowned at the back of her head. Why hadn't he realized she'd be flogging herself for what she'd said? Laura was her own harshest critic, forever holding herself to impossibly high standards.

"It never occurred to me that you had," he assured. "Laura, after I left the match—"

"I was upset about _him_ showing up," she continued on as though he hadn't spoken. "I shouldn't have taken it out on—"

"I went to see your father!" he blurted out, nearly yelling the words, frustrated by his inability to get a word in edgewise.

The next thing he knew, he was grabbing at the side of the hammock as it dipped precariously low. His fingers made contact with the cloth in the split second before he was dumped, face first, onto the pavers below…


	11. Chapter 8: Minor Deceptions

Chapter 8: Minor Deceptions

Remington groaned from where he lay on the ground. _I'm getting too old for this nonsense,_ he groused silently, before launching himself to his feet and giving chase.

"Lau-ra," he drawled, "Wait, wait!" Halfway across the terrace he managed to grab hold of Laura's arm. Yanking it free, she spun to face him.

"Lemme ask you one question," she challenged, her face a mask of fury, "What the hell were you thinking?" She threw her hands out in emphasis.

"Well—" he began, only for her to cut him off.

"Why? Just tell me why!" she demanded, as she wrapped her arms tightly around her body and began to pace.

"Well, I—"

"Did you go there to warn him off?" she persisted, pausing to look at him, then continuing to pace. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pocket s to wait out her rant.

"It wasn't necessarily my intent, although—" he answered, resignedly, knowing she wouldn't allow him to complete the thought.

"To rough him up a little, then show him the door?" The look he gave her suggested she'd gone mad.

"Don't be absurd," he rebuked. "The man's older than—"

"Then what?!" she demanded to know.

"Well—" She came to an abrupt stop and pinned her eyes on him.

"Is there even the slightest chance you believed this would be alright with me?" He tugged a hand from his pocket and held it up in a helpless gesture.

"Well, no, but—" She was instantly on the move again.

"So, what, this was some Neanderthal impulse on your part to defend the 'little woman'?" Despite knowing she'd accuse him of such at some point, he couldn't stop the wince that followed the accusation.

"I wouldn't put it exactly—"

"You had no right!" she accused, angrily. His jaw clenched, and his own formidable temper, though rarely displayed, erupted.

"I had no _right?!_ " he exploded. "Need I remind you that for a dozen years now I have paid in some form or fashion for the man walking out on you and your mother!? The looks, the doubts, the insecurities, having to prove time-and-time again that I am not just like him, that you won't wake one morning and find me gone, even now!." She shuddered, visibly, when the words struck home. She despised in herself the weakness that would allow old doubts and fears to sneak back in, convincing her there would come a time he'd simply walk away. In her heart she knew it wasn't true, but her head had a knack of trumping her heart. "This isn't about you being a woman, or questioning whether you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, which we both know you are. It's about me not wishing for the _most important person in my life_ not being injured… again!" He waved an agitated arm towards the house. "It's about this! Our home, our family… you! It's all that matters most to me. I don't _have a right_? I have _every_ bloody right to assess anything I damn well please should I see it as a threat to _any_ of it! Tell me you wouldn't have done the same!" He stopped, chest rising and falling, puffing hard at the effort of the unaccustomed rant. Her chin ticked upwards a notch at the challenge cast in her direction. Crossing her arms, she averted her face from him.

"That's not the point," she muttered.

"The hell it isn't!" he roared. "Why is it when I take steps to protect what is mine, I am out of line, yet when you do the same," he extended an arm and pointed a finger at her, "it is fully justified!?" Still panting, he stared at her for several seconds. When she remained obstinately silent he flipped a disgusted hand at her and stormed away towards the house.

"You're right," she called over her shoulder. The words tasted like vinegar on her tongue but she forced herself to say them anyway. It was a concession he knew was made neither lightly nor easily and they stilled his feet, his fury immediately evaporating. Feeling it was his due, he made her squirm a bit.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" He turned as he spoke, the mischievous look in his eye contradicting the questioning expression on his face. That he was willing to let go, so easily, what he'd clearly seen as an insult, went a long way toward relieving the strain in her shoulders. Her smile was one reserved solely for him, one filled with love, thankfulness, a bit of cheekiness. She considered his easy ability to forgive to be one of his very best attributes.

"You heard me," she answered, refusing to stroke his ego by saying it again.

"Yes, but they are words so rarely spoken, I'm convinced I must have imagined them," he replied, encircling her in his arms when he reached her.

"I seem to be saying this a lot today: I'm sorry," she breathed the two words against his neck. He pressed his cheek to the side of her head, then bussed her atop it.

"Already forgotten." With a final hug, he wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her back to the couch in front of the fire. Retrieving their glasses of wine he handed one to her and joined her. Laura sat the wine on the table before her, then with elbows pressed to knees dropped her face in her hands. Remington sipped at his wine, waiting her out. She'd speak when she was ready. Minutes passed before, she drew her hands through her hair then clasped them together in front of her.

"From the day my father walked out until the day I left for college," she spoke slowly, "I daydreamed about a day exactly like today. Maybe at one of my ball games, a parent's night at school, at my graduation or even one day while I was visiting my grandmother, suddenly, there he'd be. 'Hi, Champ, I've missed you,' he'd say. And somehow," she gesticulated with a hand then folded them together again, "That would make my world right again, because it wouldn't have been a lie."

"What wouldn't have been?" he asked quietly, as though she might spook. Back still to him, she blinked her eyes rapidly, despite knowing the question would follow.

"That I mattered to him," she replied wistfully, while lifting a hand to finger her brow. With a tilt of his head he pursed his lips and considered her words, comparing them to the little he'd extracted from Jack. Her heavy-hearted sigh drew him from his thoughts, and he set aside the conclusions he'd reached – for now. "Did he happen to mention why he suddenly decided to show up?"

"Mmm," he confirmed with a hum. "On trips to LA over the years, he'd seen a bit about you in the papers. He wondered how you'd faired since last he saw you." She snorted a derisive laugh and shook her head adamantly.

"I don't believe him," she retorted, launching herself to her feet. Remington propped his feet, ankles crossed, on the table next to her abandoned wine, and swirled the liquid in his glass, prepared to allow her to vent as long as she might need. He may have appeared relaxed, but his eyes followed her intently. "He didn't give a damn about the sixteen-year-old girl he abandoned. I saw the letters he wrote my grandmother," she emphasized the damnation. "She'll be fine. She's tough. I have to worry about my new family. I have two sons now. _They need me_ , not her." Only the merest flicker of his brow acknowledged the anomaly she'd spoken of and he filed that piece of information away as well. "I needed him, damn it," she said the epitaph with gusto. "Not them! Frances had Mother and Donald, who did I have?! My grandmother did the best she could, but she couldn't understand – not really – what it was like for me in that house. I had only him! Frances and Mother had each other and after he left, Frances had Donald as well. I had no one! When Mother wasn't fully withdrawn, she was worrying over Frances. She'd go on and on about how 'poor Frances' should be celebrating her upcoming marriage to Donald; how 'poor Frances' would have to bear the shame of not having her father there to give her away. I was… I was—" She stumbled over the words, then turned to cast pain filled eyes upon him, opening and closing her mouth as the words wouldn't come.

"Tell me, love," he gently urged. Maybe it was the softness of his voice, or maybe it was the tenderness in his eyes… or perhaps it was nothing more than the use of the endearment which proved an enduring reminder that while she may have lost some things over time, she'd gained so, so much more. Whatever it was, she turned on her heel and paced again as she found the words.

"I was falling apart," she continued as passionately as she'd spoken before, as though she'd the words had never failed her. "I was giving my virginity to a boy I didn't give a damn about," she threw her arms wide in self-disgust, "In the backseat of a smelly old car! I was neglecting school, hanging out with the wrong people, and partying! I was having a nervous breakdown! Who was there _for me?_ I could only tell my grandmother so much! He was her son, for God's sake. And the things I was doing?! She would have been so ashamed of me, and I just couldn't…" her voice broke and she cleared her throat "… I couldn't… My grandmother meant the _world_ to me and to have her know what I was doing?" She shuddered visibly and wrapped her arms around herself. "When Mother even _noticed_ me it was to tell me I was being dramatic and it was the last thing she or 'poor Frances' needed at the moment! I was alone! He knew I was in trouble and _still_ he left me there alone!" She turned to look fully at him again. "But now – _now?!_ – he wonders how I faired?" she asked in disbelief. She rubbed her arms with her hands as she shook her head. "Maybe it's just the detective in me, but I have to ask myself: What does he really want?" He lifted his brows at her.

"He said he'd like a second chance at being a part of your life," Remington shared. "And you?" His heart skipped a beat as he watched first panic, then naked pain slash through Laura's eyes. She unconsciously shook her head repeatedly as she turned away and walked towards the terrace wall. Dropping his feet from the table, he set down his wine glass then leaned forward, his attention riveted on her.

"When he showed up today?" she wrapped her arms around herself again, her voice so quiet he had to concentrate to hear her. "I was that sixteen-year-old girl again. My heart…" she turned and leaned her backside against the wall, a hand reaching for her chest, "My heart _pounding,_ throat closing, chest tightening like the morning after he left." She pressed the fingertips of both hands to her forehead. His tongue flicked against his lips at the admission and his eyes narrowed on her face, his muscles instinctively tensing, preparing to react should the need arise. "After…" she cleared her throat "When Roselli kidnapped me from the Rossmore, I was… terrified. I wasn't sure if you were alive or dead. I was being drugged and the hallucinations…" a shiver shot down her spine and she shook her head, unable to speak further of the images that had terrorized her during those days "Even knowing what Roselli had planned for me… it didn't begin to compare to how I felt after my father left. Every ounce of security, every _bit_ of approval, _any_ encouragement all went with him! Today, standing on the beach, I felt that same fear clawing at me," she gesticulated with her hands, "But then came this surge of… rage," she shared in a disbelieving voice, that found him relaxing back against the couch again, wine in hand. "My father or not, how dare he show up here the way that he did. I didn't matter that he… he… he _blindsided_ me," she related angrily. "Just as he made the decision to leave, he made the decision to show up here on his terms, with _no_ consideration of how it might affect _my life or my family's_ ," she threw her hands outwards in outrage as she walked towards him.

Puffing out a great sigh, she flopped down next to him on the couch, and plucked his wine glass from his hand. Taking a sip, she shifted willingly, when he eased a leg behind her, then had her turn to rest her back against his chest. Despite the serious nature of the conversation, he chuckled silently, unseen. She'd taken to helping herself to his beverages right around the time of their seventh anniversary – even when she had a perfectly good version of her own within reach, as was the case now. It was a new intimacy to their relationship that he found somehow… comforting, though were anyone else to do the same, he wouldn't be imbibing further on the evening.

"He had no right!" she summarized, as Remington settled a hand on her shoulder, fingers searching out those knots again. She scrunched her face with regret. "The children were there, Remington. He may be their grandfather, at least by blood, but he's a stranger to them, nothing more. What if-"

"Mmmm," he agreed, with a hum, cutting her off before her vivid imagination began concocting any number of disastrous scenarios that might have occurred, "You covered admirably."

"I don't know that lying to my children is a skill at which I wish to be accomplished," she noted, wryly.

"Mmm, even so, despite our best intentions to be honest with them, there will come times when we'll have to choose to deceive them because it is their best interests for us to do so," he pointed out. He lifted his hand from her shoulder and held it out palm upwards, while pursing his lips. "We already play fast and loose with the truth to ensure they have happy memories of childhood. I mean, really, Laura: Fat jolly men that slip down chimneys at night, bunnies that deliver baskets of goodies?" He snorted his laughter as he resumed her massage.

"I understand what you're saying," she sighed, "But somehow I don't think allowing them to believe in Santa Claus is the same as telling them their grandfather is a salesman."

"You did what you felt was necessary, " he dismissed. "Dare I ask if you have any idea what you intend to do?" She briefly stiffened beneath his hands then forced herself to relax again.

"I don't know," she answered, wearily, with a lift and drop of her hand. "Right now the only thing I know is the girl who once needed her father is long gone, and the woman I am now doesn't trust him. Can you think of a reason I should even begin to give him a chance?"

"If you are asking if I believe him deserving of your forgiveness, the answer is unequivocally 'no,'" he replied, then added. "If you are asking if I believe you are deserving of the opportunity to forgive him, without a doubt, the answer is yes." Her brows knitted together as she took a sip of his wine.

"I don't understand," she muttered, with some frustration. He plucked his glass from her fingers and took a sip before handing it back to her.

"You've spent the entirety of your adult life alternately blaming yourself for his abandonment or judging every man by his actions." She opened her mouth to vehemently protest but with a squeeze of her shoulders and an unseen shake of his head, he silenced her. "Hear me out."

"Alright," she drew out the word.

"You're entitled to what your father never permitted you by virtue of disappearing as he did: Explanations. Knowing you, as I do, you won't be able to make an informed decision until you have all the answers you need in hand." She closed her eyes and nodded her head.

"I want Mildred to run a full background check on him," she announced. What she'd expected to hear was 'Now, Laura, he's your father,' what she got was…

"I don't think it's a _bad_ idea…" How could he when that little nugget he'd set aside earlier returned to the forefront of his thoughts. She turned her head to look back at him, stunned.

"You don't?" He lifted a pair of brows at her.

"We didn't take Father solely on his word, did we?" he pointed out. "Granted we didn't do a full background check, but by the time he 'came clean,' so to speak, we already knew a great deal about him and his past. Still, we took measures to assure the legitimacy of his claims." She quirked a half smile before facing forward again.

"I don't exactly think a DNA test is required in this case." The humor heard in her tone brought a smile to his face.

"Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but some years ago when you told me of the letters you found at your grandmother's, didn't you say your father had made mention of two boys?"

"Yes," she confirmed, "Why do you ask?"

"Did those letters ever," he gesticulated with a hand, "Mention the name of those boys?"

"Yes. Eric and Adam. Why?"

"You're certain one of the names wasn't John?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Shrugging off the hands on her shoulders she spun around and faced him. Her eyes flickered over his face for an instant. "Remington, why do you ask?" He drew a hand over his mouth.

"A comment your father made to me. He never brought up 'sons' in the plural, just that his son John had always wished for a large family," he shared. He watched as the color washed away from Laura's skin, leaving the smattering of freckles on her face and neck to stand out starkly. She swallowed once and nodded sharply.

"John Edward Holt, Junior," she numbly supplied. "My father's full name. My grandparents chose to call him 'Jack' to avoid confusion." She pressed her fingers to her eyes for several heartbeats, then dropping them, looked Remington in the eye. "You think I have a brother," she surmised.

"John's a fairly common name, but it's possibility, I suppose," he conceded, "Although I'd be more curious as to why he made no mention of the other two."

The only sign she gave that she understood the implications of his words was a blink of her eyes. Picking up her glass of wine, she handed his back to him.

"Well, hopefully we'll know more when Mildred finishes the background check," she said, with finality. She'd wasted enough of the afternoon allowing herself to be distracted by her father's sudden arrival, and yet more time this evening. The man had taken a good part of her childhood and while she might not have had a choice in his staying then or arriving now, she _could_ choose how much of her time she gave him now, right? Turning, she stretched out between Remington's legs again, reclining against his shoulder and chest. "Don't make plans for us Saturday," she warned. "I have something in mind." He tipped his head back to look down at her.

"Oh? Care to share?" She gave him a sly smile.

"It's time, Mr. Steele, for some ice skating lessons."

"I don't see why," he dismissed. "You already skate beautifully." She laughed softly.

"Oh, I didn't mean for me," she replied airily. His eyes widened and jaw slackened.

"Oh, no, no, no," he refused, extricating his lean frame behind hers and standing while wagging a finger, "Remington Steele _does not_ … ice… skate," he said the last two words with no little disdain. His protest coaxed a wide smile from her, while a pair of brows rose in challenge. He shook his head adamantly, pointing that finger at her. "No." Her smile grew brighter, his eyes widened. "No! Think of the image, Laura. It wouldn't do at all to have the world renowned detective falling on his backside, splayed out on his back for all to see. Oh, no, no, no. I'm putting my foot down," he told her decisively, "Don't even bother trying to convince me. There's nothing you can say that will see me strapping those twin blades of ignominy and injury upon my feet." Gracefully standing, smile still on her face, her eyes danced with the light of victory. His tongue flicked out against his lips, and he leveled a wary look upon her.

"I wouldn't count on that, as I have _three_ reasons that you'll be 'strapping those twin blade of ignominy and injury' on your feet," she countered, tweaking his chin with a pair of fingers. "Two daughters who want to skate with their Da and a son you don't want to teach a little embarrassment and potentially a few bruises should stop him from learning something new." His mouth opened and closed several times as he searched for a meaningful protest and found none.

"You, Mrs. Steele," he pouted as he wrapped his arms loosely about her waist, "Play dirty."

"To win, Mr. Steele. I play to win," she corrected. A crooked smile lifted a corner of his mouth as she linked her arms around his neck.

"That you do, Mrs. Steele, that you do," he murmured, then covered his lips with her.


	12. September 1994

_September 14, 1994_

" _I just don't think it's the best idea, Barb," Josh argued._

" _It's been twelve years," Barb countered. "I've been sober for five, I haven't had another breakdown in just as long. I need this."_

" _It's too much on you! Look what's happened before. You start thinking about going back to work, and you accosted someone else's child at Katie's school. She and her parents were so terrified, Katie was asked not to return. Then, you start working again and what happens? You thought you saw Lynnee at a park, and stalked the child for weeks! You were arrested for God's sake! Committed, again!" Barb absorbed the truth of the blows, but unlike years past, she didn't crumble beneath the accusations._

" _You're right," she calmly replied, "But I'm not the same person any longer. I'm no longer drinking, I committed myself – all the way - to my therapy. I've accepted she's not coming home." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's time to finish taking back my life." The week prior she'd applied for a window dressing job with a department store that had four locations throughout the greater Los Angeles area. The job was technically only four hours a day, something to get her feet wet, to ease her back into the workforce, before she attempted to revive her long dormant interior design company. "Dr. LeBlanc agrees: it's time," she added, pulling out a big gun. Josh puffed out his frustration._

" _And if it happens again?"_

" _It won't," she solemnly vowed. She scooted over on the couch and took his hand in hers."I need you to believe in me, Josh, as much as I need to believe in myself."_

" _I'm afraid, Barbie," he confessed, painfully. She lay her head on his shoulder, nodding._

" _I know you are. So am I," she admitted with equal difficulty. "But we can't keep living frozen in time. It's time to get on with our lives."_

* * *

 _September 30, 1994_

 _Barb strode confidently through the food court of The Beverly Center, her heels tap-tap-tapping against the floor. On the job for just over two weeks, and all four locations were singing her praises. 'Innovative,' 'Eye-catching,' 'original' and 'money making' were just a few of the descriptors that had been applied to her work. She had worried, briefly, that she would feel unchallenged, as the position was an immense step down from running her own designer firm. Instead, she found herself looking forward to the quickly approaching holidays, her mind already spinning visions of displays revolving around the Nutcracker, and Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street._

 _It was the laugh that caught her attention: A melodious laugh like the one that had once filled her days with joy. She scanned the vast area with both eyes and ears, her sightline following when she heard the laughter again._

 _Five teenage girls, walked in tandem as a group, each dressed in a short sleeve white blouse, pleated blue plaid skirt, navy socks and blue tie. Without conscious thought, Barb fell into line behind them, her ears listening keenly. This time, when the laugh again filled the air, her eyes fell sharply upon the girl from who it had come._

Then drew in a sharp breath.

 _Wide, doe-like eyes, full lips, strong jaw, cheeks that were no longer chubby but more sculpted… and a smile that was the duplicate of Josh's. The sandy brown hair still straight as a board, but now streaked with hot pink. But that laugh…_

 _Oh, that laugh._

 _Instinctively, she followed: Out of the Beverly Center onto the bus, then only two stops away to a fairly new – if utterly non-descript – apartment complex on Burton Way. It was with conscious thought that she stepped onto the elevator with the girl, praying she'd recognize her, at the same time praying she wouldn't realize she'd been followed._

" _New here?" the girl asked, drawing Barbie from her thoughts._

" _Yes, just moved in last week," her eyes watched as the teen pushed the button for the third floor. "Fourth floor," she added, stabbing at the button herself. "Have you lived here long?"_

" _Half my life," the girl smiled. "We moved her when I was seven, right after the building opened. It's nothing fancy, but everyone's pretty nice._

" _From LA originally?" Barb inquired as though making innocent conversation._

" _Kind of," the girl laughed, that musical laugh. "I was born here, but we moved to San Diego when I was just a baby. We didn't come back to LA until right before I started school."_

" _Catholic school I take it?" The girl laughed again._

" _Yeah, Mom and Pops won't even consider public school. When I graduated from Christ the King last spring, I begged them to let me go to BHHS. So, Loyola it is," she shared, indicating the uniform. "Do you have any kids?"_

" _Three. Two girls and a boy," Barb answered. Is it her? I see so much of Josh and Katie in her. If only I could see her upper arm, then I'd know._

" _Public or private?" the girl asked. Barb gave her head a little shake to clear her mind._

" _I'm sorry, what?"_

" _Public school or private."_

" _Public."_

" _Lucky them," the girl smiled while feigning a grimace. "I'm an only so my folks are way overprotective. Well, this is my floor," she announced as the elevator came to a halt. She held out a hand. "Jess."_

" _Ann," Barb fibbed, taking her hand. The touch was electric, a charge racing from her fingertip straight to her soul. "It's nice to meet you."_

" _You, too. See you around." Stepping off the elevator, the girl turned right, never looking back._

 _Barb allowed the elevator doors to slide nearly completely closed, before placing her foot on the threshold. Safety guards activated, the doors slid back open. Cautiously, she poked her head out the doorway and watched as Jess removed a key from her backpack and slide it into the lock on a door. Only once Jess was safely inside and the door shut behind her did Barb dare to steal down the corridor._

 _Apartment 3B, she committed to memory._

 _It took every ounce of willpower she could scrape up to walk away from that door… to return to her car and to drive home, away from the child that might be hers._

 _At home, she paced the lower floor of the house, thankful that, at least for now, she was alone. She couldn't tell Josh of her suspicions. She couldn't go to the police, not after what happened the last time. She couldn't risk following Jess again and getting caught. The list of couldn't's was long, daunting._

 _But there was one thing she could do, that would allow her to discover the truth without placing her marriage, her freedom at risk. With a glance at her watch, she raced to the downstairs office and pulled the phone book from the desk drawer. In less than a minute's time she was tapping the phone number out on the pad of the portable phone._

" _The Remington Steele Agency…"_


	13. Chapter 9: Jessica

Chapter 9: Jessica

October 3, 1994

"Alright, everyone, that brings us to our final order of business on the day," Laura addressed the staff of the Agency. "Mr. Steele?" Clearing his throat, Remington dropped the feet propped on the corner of the table to the floor and stood.

"Does everyone have their pagers on them this morning?" he began with the question. Celek and Burton exchanged a look, while a several heads nodded and a few of the associate detectives answered in the affirmative "Good, good. Let's toss them all on the table then, shall we?" No one moved, only casting puzzled looks in his direction. "C'mon, c'mon, Mrs. Steele and I will start." Unclipping his own pager from his belt, he slid it down the length of the table, the pager stopping near the middle while Laura did the same. Soon, the rest of the detectives pagers followed. "Whilst on holiday, Mrs. Steele and I decided it was high time to bring the Agency into the mid '90's, technologically speaking," he shared as he walked to the conference room door and swung it open. Stepping out he returned a scant second later with a trio of bags in hand. "Care to assist, Mrs. Steele?" he inquired.

"Of course," she easily agreed, although a mental eye roll accompanied her acquiescence. After a dozen years the man couldn't simply get straight to the point, needing to infuse the moment with a bit of theatricality.

"Pagers are now a thing of the past for the Agency," Remington continued as he gathered an arm full of small boxes and began passing them out down the left hand side of the table, while Laura followed suit on the right. "To that end, I'd like to introduce you to the Nokia 2110, the very cutting edge of cellular telephone technology. The—"

"Are you being for real?" Kiara blurted out, before she could stop the words from passing her lips. Laughter followed her sudden outburst. Cell phones were one of the hottest commodities on the market, and with phones such as the Nokia 2110 selling at well over a thousand each, they were out of the reach of many potential consumers.

"I _never_ joke about technology," Remington answered, lifting a pair of brows at her in answer, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "Most especially technology that will not only make our jobs easier, but provide a measure of safety as well." Much like he couldn't pass up the opportunity to put on a good show, he couldn't resist the chance to get in a well-placed jab. "Not to mention technology that will allow me to reach Mrs. Steele when she goes haring off without me on a case." Laura scrunched up her nose at him, while another round of laughter filled the conference room. While she'd vastly improved on her habit of leaving him behind while she was off in pursuit of a case, there were still several times a year when the staff would be asked if they knew where 'Mrs. Steele had gone off to this time.'

"Or…" Laura drew out the word, "That will allow me to track Mr. Steele down at whatever movie theater he has snuck off to in the middle of the day." More laughter followed, the staff well versed in their boss's propensity to play hooky at least once a week.

"Mmmm, I hadn't considered that," Remington acknowledged. "Perhaps it'd be best that we remain in the dark ages with those pagers after all." Jokingly he reached for the box he'd just placed in front of Kiara. She snatched the box up and clutched it to her chest.

"Nuh-uh, no take backs, Mr. Steele." The room erupted again. He wagged a finger at her and smiled.

"You can either spend a few hours with the booklet provided with the phone," he continued, "Or a pair of Monroe's men should be arriving shortly who I'm assured can bring you up to speed within twenty minutes or so."

"Also," Laura added, "You'll find a holster and car charger on your desks when you return to your offices. Everyone is to provide Bernice with the phone number you are assigned before leaving the office today. She'll put together a complete listing, which will be distributed at tomorrow morning's meeting. Any questions?" When no one spoke up, she dismissed the group. "Alright, then let's get to work. Mildred," she turned to face the Agency's senior detective and head of the White Crimes division, "If you could bring the information I asked you to gather to Mr. Steele's office?" With a grin, Mildred held up a manila folder.

"Ready when you are, Mrs. Steele."

Eleven years of working with the detective duo had given Mildred a decided edge on predicting their needs. When Laura had refused the report's contents prior to leaving on the trip to Vail with Remington, she hadn't needed to provide explanations: So rare was their time alone together, she didn't want the contents of that report to be on her mind while they were gone. When they returned, however, she imagined Laura would be chomping at the bit for the results… and she was right.

The threesome retired to Remington's office. As soon as the file was placed in Laura's hands, Mildred turned to leave, giving the couple their privacy.

"Mildred, stay," Laura insisted. "We have no secrets from you."

"Aww, hon, I don't wanna put my nose in family business," Mildred declined, taking a step towards the door.

"Mildred," Laura drew out her name in protest, "You are family. Now, sit down. I may need your insight." As Mildred situated herself in a chair, Laura sat down next to Remington on his office couch, then fingered the file on her lap. With a huff of frustration, she handed it back to Mildred. "Tell us what you found," she directed. Mildred eyed the younger woman with concern but did as she asked, opening the folder and starting with the basics.

"John Edward Holt, Junior," she recited, as Laura stood to pace the width of Remington's office. "Born July 15, 1928 in Los Angeles, the only child of John Edward Holt, Senior and Olivia Elizabeth Kelly Holt. Attended Yale University, graduating Magna Cum Laud with a Bachelor's Degree in accounting. Married Abigail Rose Bostwick on June 16, 1951 in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Two months after they married, they relocated to Palo Alto, where John—"

"Jack," Laura corrected absently. "My grandfather was John, my father Jack." Mildred's eyes flickered to Remington. He merely lifted his brow, shrugged a shoulder, and gesticulated with a hand that she should forge on.

"Where Jack," Mildred corrected, "Attended Stanford University, earning his Master's Degree in 1953. Following his graduation, he and Abigail moved again, this time to Los Angeles where they purchased a home on Vineyard Avenue in West Adams and he established an accounting firm with a partner, Mark Ellis, by the name of Ellis and Holt. Frances Margaret Holt was born to the couple on April 5th, 1952 while they lived in Palo Alto, followed, of course, by Mrs. Steele in January of '56, born here in Los Angeles. In '72, John… I mean Jack… walked away from—"

"One moment," Remington interrupted. "No mention of a third child?"

"There wouldn't be," Laura answered before Mildred could, while the older woman's eyes moved back and forth between the couple. "As far as I know they never had a birth certificate issued, there was no birth announcement. Go on, Mildred." Mildred glanced at Remington for guidance, he held out a hand as though to say 'she's in charge.'

"He walked away from the accounting firm he helped established, hanging a shingle in Lancaster, about an hour and a half north of LA. In September of '72, five days after his first divorce was finalized, he married Pamela Paulson Reed, a twenty-nine year-old widow with two sons: Eric Alan born in '63 and Adam Michael born in '65. In spring of '78 he and the second wife divorced and he moved again, this time to San Bernadino where he set up shop and bought a house in Ridgeline. In August of '79 he married for a third time, Brenda Maria Barrow, a thirty-six-year-old single mother of a son, John James Barrow, born in '77. He formally adopted the child in '81."

"Criminal record? Other properties? Financials?" she ticked off the questions by habit.

"His criminal record is squeaky clean. He paid a healthy sum of alimony to his second wife monthly until she remarried in '79. He and his current wife have a line of credit against their home, with a minimal balance, and his mortgage is roughly half paid with no delinquency on record. Two vehicles are registered in his name: An '87 Ford Thunderbird and a '91 Nissan Sentra."

"Anything else?" Laura inquired.

"Other than what I told you… bupkis," Mildred replied. She narrowed her eyes on the younger woman. "Why do I get the feeling you're disappointed I didn't uncover some deep, dark secret?" Laura gave her a rueful look as she crossed the room and flumped down on the sofa next to Remington.

"I guess because if you had found something, it would have made my decision easier," she huffed with a lift and drop of her hands.

"What has Frances got to say about all this?" Mildred wondered. Laura averted her head and fingered her throat, while Remington smirked at her discomfort.

"I don't know," Laura admitted, reluctantly. "She cancelled lunch on Sunday when Alex came down with a fever and we haven't really talked since."

"Mrs. Steele!" Mildred admonished. Laura immediately held up a hand.

"I know, I know, you don't need to lecture me, Mildred," she answered, looking at the older woman directly. "She and I have to talk."

"Mmmm, and tonight will provide the perfect opportunity for the two of you to do just that," Remington suggested. Laura turned narrow eyes upon him.

"What have you done?" she demanded to know. He held his hands up in self-defense.

"I merely invited the Piper clan to dinner this evening."

"You lied to me," she accused.

"I didn't lie. I suggested a family dinner this evening and you agreed," he pointed out. Mildred's lips pursed with amusement as she witnessed the interplay.

"I _thought_ you meant your Father and Catherine," she retorted.

"Actually, Father and Catherine are going out to dinner with Mildred and Rusty this evening, isn't that so, Mildred?" Mildred frowned and wagged her finger at him.

"Oh, no you don't, Boss," she warned, then looked at Laura. "I had no idea what he was up to," she defended, then shrugged, "But I don't think it's a bad idea. You and your sister need to talk." Laura launched herself from the sofa again and took several steps away before turning and throwing her arms open wide at the other pair.

"And what am I supposed to say?" she challenged. "I have no pearls of wisdom to give, no guidance to offer. How can I, when I have no idea how I feel or what it is that I want to do?"

"Oh, hon, as far as I know you can only find the answers you're looking for in one place," Mildred held up the file, "And I don't mean in here. You're gonna have to talk to him."

Automatically, Laura crossed her arms and tilted her chin up slightly, still resisting the idea that was the only option open to her. She was saved from having to respond when the phone on Remington's desk rang. Turning, she eyed which button was lit up, then stabbed at it while picking up the handset.

"Yes, Bernice?"

"Your ten o'clock has just arrived," Bernice announced.

"Can you bring me the file and then in ten minutes show her into Mr. Steele's office?"

"File's already on your desk. See you in five." With those words, Bernice disconnected the line. Mildred, having overheard Laura's side of the conversation, was already on her feet and crossing the room by the time Laura hung up the phone.

"I'm outta here," she announced, as she handed Laura the file. "We should be wrapping up the Burgess case by mid-afternoon." Clasping Laura's cheeks in both her hands, she leveled an intense but loving look upon the younger woman. "Honey, you may not like the answers, but you need to ask the questions. It's time to put the past to rest, don't you think?" With a quick hug, she turned and left the office. Laura sighed then directed her attention to Remington as he stood.

"Let me get the file from my desk so we can review it."

She found him seated in his chair, feet propped on the corner of the desk, and ankles crossed. Perching on the corner of her desk she skimmed the file while speaking aloud.

"Barbara Jefferson, aged fifty-two, with a degree in interior design, currently working as a window dresser for a chain of department stores. Married to Joshua Jefferson, aged fifty-four, a Harvard educated financial adviser, currently employed in the same field." She leafed through several pages of information. "Excellent credit, strong investment portfolio…" she turned another pair of pages "Nice home, mortgage paid in full last year." She tapped her finger to the page opened before her. "She was arrested five years ago for harassment and placed on a 5150 hold."

"Who is it she was harassing?" he inquired, getting up then standing next to her peered over her shoulder.

"It doesn't say," she replied pensively.

"And why is it she wishes to engage our services?" Laura turned another page, and, frowning, deciphered Bernice's scrawl.

"Oh, my," she commented breathily, unable to imagine the anguish the woman must have endured all these years.

"What? What is it?" he inquired, straining his neck for a better look at the paperwork.

"Twelve years ago, her then three-year-old daughter went missing. Mrs. Jefferson believes she has found her child and wants us to confirm." She turned the page and sat up straighter as her eyes skimmed the next slip of paper. "I remember this!" she murmured, handing the paper she referenced to him. "It happened right before you arrived. Fourth of July weekend. It was all over the nightly news, in the newspapers. It was heartbreaking then, I can't even begin to imagine what they went through now." Her thoughts couldn't help but stray to their children. Feeling much the same empathy, Remington cupped her shoulder in hand and hugged her briefly against his side.

"Neither can I." Returning to his desk, he picked up his suit jacket from where it was hung over the back of his chair and slipped it on while speaking. "If her child drowned, how on earth might she have found her?"

"I guess we won't know the answer to that until we speak with her," she replied, easing down from the corner of his desk and brushing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. When he returned to her side, she straightened his tie, and smoothed her hands over the shoulder and sleeves of his jacket, as had long been her habit. He leaned slightly in towards her, so his lips weren't far from her ear.

"I should have told you who our guests were for dinner this evening," he told her quietly, by way of an apology. She leaned back to look him in the face.

"Yes, you _should have,_ " she admonished with widened eyes. Then with a long sigh conceded, "But I understand, and I can't say you were wrong: I probably would have tried to get out of it if I had known." His soft smile at the admission was accompanied by a brush of his lips against her cheek.

The dual raps upon Remington's office door had them taking a step back and away from each other, their professional façades fully intact when Bernice swung open the door.

"Mrs. Jefferson," Remington greeted, hand extended. "Remington Steele," he introduced himself as they exchanged handshakes, "And my partner, Laura Steele."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Laura offered, as they exchanged handshakes. "Please, make yourself comfortable." She indicated the pair of chairs in front of Remington's desk. "Would you like some coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you," Barb declined, as she sat. She anxiously grasped her purse as Bernice left the office, closing the door discretely behind her and Laura boosted herself up to sit on the corner of Remington's desk, while he took his place in his chair behind it.

"So, how might we be of assistance to you, Mrs. Jefferson?" he started them off, pressing elbows to desktop and steepling his fingers. Opening her purse with shaking hands, Barb removed several pieces of paper.

"On July 4, 1982, our three year old daughter, Lynn Marie – we called her Lynnee – went missing while we were spending the day at the beach." She handed Laura a copy of the newspaper article the couple had just perused, unbeknownst to her. "The police, lifeguards, search and rescue never found her, and when they didn't, they assumed she'd wandered into the water and had drowned when the riptide carried her away." The timid, frightened woman Barb had been disappeared before Remington and Laura's eyes, replaced by a woman of passionate conviction. "I didn't believe them then, and I don't believe them now. They never found a… her. Not a single person on that beach saw a toddler alone in the water. No one heard her crying out." Her eyes turned hard, determined. " _I would know if she was gone_. A mother _would know._ I can still _feel_ her."

Remington and Laura exchanged glances as Barb composed herself.

"Three days ago, I had just completed a job at the Beverly Center and was on my way home when, in the Food Court, I heard a laugh. _Her laugh_." She paused, closed her eyes, drawing in and releasing a long, slow breath. When she opened her eyes, they fell on Laura's left hand and the rings there. "Do you have children, Mrs. Steele?"

"We do," Laura confirmed.

"If you hadn't seen your child for years, would you still recognize their laugh when you heard it, their eyes or their shape of their lips when you saw them?" Laura lifted her eyes ceiling ward and considered the question. She slowly nodded as she looked at the other woman again.

"Yeah, I would," she answered, sympathetically. A feeling surged through Barb that she'd become unfamiliar with since that day on the beach: Hope. Hope that _someone_ would finally have faith that Lynnee might still be alive and amongst them. She handed Laura another piece of paper from her hand.

"This is one of the last pictures taken of Lynnee before we lost her." She handed her another piece of paper, torn from what appeared to be a year book. " _This_ is Jessica Sandberg." She handed Laura two final pieces of paper. "Those are pictures of my husband, Josh, and my daughter, Katie. Her eyes, her lips, her nose – all resemble Katie. Her _smile_ is all Josh. Jessica Sandberg is _my daughter_. I _know it._ She's Lynnee." Laura perused the pictures, and unable to deny the similarities Barb had pointed out, handed them to Remington to look at.

"May I ask how you obtained a yearbook picture of her?" Laura wondered.

"I spoke with her, briefly. She said she'd graduated from Christ the King last year. So, on Friday I made an appointment to tour the school at eight this morning. There were copies of the year book in the school library." Barb's brows drew together. "I don't customarily vandalize another person's property, but it was the only way I could think of to get a picture of her." The corner of Remington's mouth quirked upwards, impressed by the woman's moxie.

"Mind if I ask why you don't simply go to the LAPD and ask them to look into your suspicions?"Barb visibly cringed at the question and looked down at the hands twisting once more in her lap.

"They wouldn't believe me," she answered honestly. "Five years ago, I saw a girl at the park who, from a distance, resembled Lynnee somewhat. I followed her…. Several times." Her cheeks reddened with mortification. "I never spoke with her, never got too close. I kept hoping I would see _something_ that would confirm it was Lynnee." She looked from detective to the other, a plea for understanding in her eyes. "I was arrested for harassment. I… I had a breakdown, and was committed." A note of desperation entered her voice. "This is different. Jessica and I stood not even a foot away from one another. We shook hands. The instant our hands touched, I _knew._ Please. I'm not asking you to believe me. Even if you just take on my case to prove she isn't my daughter, I don't care. Just, please, I have to know. One way or another I have to know."

"Mrs. Steele, caucus?" Remington suggested, rising from his chair, and indicating the door to their joint breakroom. Casting a questioning look in his direction, Laura lowered herself off the desk and followed. Once he closed the door behind them, he guided her, with a hand to the small of her back into her office for a little more privacy.

" _The Haunting of Julia,"_ he suggested in an undertone. She rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Taking a trip to the movies, are we, Mr. Steele?" she drawled, impatiently.

"A woman consumed by guilt after the death of her daughter is haunted by visions of her child's ghost," he synopsized.

"Ghost," she deadpanned, then rolled her eyes again before turning back toward his office. He caught her arm before she could leave, and she turned with a lift of the brow that questioned what he was doing.

"Not ghosts," he drawled some words of his own. "Guilt, Laura. Her child drowned while in her care. I imagine guilt over such as that could drive anyone to madness." She glanced towards his office then shook her head.

"I don't know that I believe she's 'mad,'" she refuted. "Tortured, is maybe a better word. Her child disappeared twelve years ago. They never found a body, they gave her no proof of death. I'd like to think if the same happened to us, we would leave no stone unturned to find the truth." She had him there and she knew it. His mouth opened and closed without a response. With a smile of triumph, she closed in. Fingering his tie, she smiled, wide-eyed, up at him. "Even if we prove this girl isn't her child, we'll at least provide her some modicum of peace. We start with the girl's birth certificate. If it proves she isn't our client's child, well… At least she knows." With those words, she returned to his office, him following in her wake, where they found Barb dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"I'm not crazy," she quietly insisted.

"We never said you were," Laura comforted, sitting in the chair next to Barb and patting the shaking hand on her lap. "We'll start today, but I need your word you won't have any further contact with Jessica, including following her."

"I promise," Barb vow, "I just.. I just need to know."

"I give you my word: We _will_ find the truth, no matter what that truth is." Barb nodded her head vigorously.

"She lives in an apartment building on Burton Way," Barb rattled of the address, "Apartment 3B, goes to school at Loyola. She said she was born in LA but lived in San Diego for a few years before moving back here." Laura knew a moment of doubt about taking on the case as she questioned how long Barb had been following the girl, but shook off her concerns. At the end of the day, it would best for all concerned to either confirm or eliminate Barb's suspicions. Standing, she offered Barb her hand again.

"I'll get started, personally, this morning. For now, if you'll see Bernice at the reception desk, she'll have you sign our contract and go over everything with you." Taking a deep breath, Barb composed herself and stood, offering Remington her hand as well.

"Thank you… Just, thank you. You have no idea what this means to me."

With those final words, Barb walked with the Laura to the office door then disappeared beyond. As the door closed behind her, for the first time in twelve years, Barb felt like she finally had someone on her side.


	14. Chapter 10: Evening Plans

_**A/N: Through the remainder of the holiday season and into the new year - with the Vignettes of Laura and Remington and hopefully one or two Christmas treats on their way - I will be trying a little something different. Rather than waiting to complete 3 or 4 chapters before publishing, as each chapter is completed, this story will be updated.**_

* * *

Chapter 10: Evening Plans

"Thinking about the case?" Remington asked from where he stood at the kitchen island seasoning a pan of potatoes for the grill, while Livvie, Sophie and Holt cooperated together to tear spinach leaves and romaine lettuce and toss them into the large salad bowl.

"I just can't shake the feeling that whether or not Jessica is Barb's missing daughter, something is very, very wrong," Laura shared. "I spent most of the day checking vital records first in California, then across the country. I can't find a registered birth certificate for Jessica anywhere."

"Home birth, perhaps?" Remington suggested. He had been a home birth himself, and a record had never been registered in London where he'd been born. Laura pursed her lips and shook her head slowly.

"That doesn't track with what we know as parents," she dismissed. "When Sophie and Livvie started school, we had to provide birth certificates, vaccination records, and social security numbers."

"Perhaps she is older or younger than believed," he suggested.

"No," she drew out the word. "I searched for any Jessica Sandberg's born between 1975 and 1985. None of those were born to an Angela Ester Sandberg."

"You're certain that's _this_ Jessica mother's name?"

"She lives at the address Barb gave us, she's the right age. She lived in LA around the time Jessica would have been an infant and toddler, later in San Diego, just as Jessica shared with Barb. In 1983 she applied for a social security number for her daughter, Jessica Anna Sandberg born June 8th, 1978." She lifted dropped a frustrated hand. "I can't imagine she's not." She took a sip of the chardonnay held in her right hand.

"Da, can I grate the parmesan?" Livvie requested.

"By all means, a stór," he replied. Turning to the fridge, he took out the block of parmesan then reached into a cabinet under the island and pulled out the grater. "Didn't our client say her daughter was three when she went missing and was presumed drowned in July of '82?" he asked.

"Da?" Sophie bounced on her bar stool. "Can I do the sprinkles?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way, a thaisce," he answered, placing the small bowl of freshly chopped parsley to her right then setting the pan of potatoes before her.

"Yes, but if Jessica Sandberg and Lynn Marie Jefferson are one and the same, the date of birth wouldn't necessarily be accurate, now would it?" she proposed.

"No, I suppose not. And the parents? What did you turn up on them?" he wondered. Normally, such details of the work day would be discussed on the way home, but today Remington had spent the tail end of the day inspecting the latest security installment Warmack and Graham had overseen and schmoozing the nervous clients. Seven years after hiring their first associate, there were still those clients who found only Remington Steele, himself, would do.

"Angela Ester Sandberg, forty-six, married David Luther Wright in late 1983 in San Diego, California. She hasn't held a job in the last decade, while he works in construction. They file jointly, but prior to 1984, Jessica was never claimed on either one's tax returns." He lifted a pair of brows at her, questioning how she managed to obtain the little nugget of information. As vast as their resources were, obtaining someone's tax returns usually required an act of God. "Bumpers."

"Ahhh."

"I'm all done," Sophie announced with a toothy smile.

"Me, too," Livvie chimed in. His eyes roamed over their efforts and found it satisfactory.

"So I see. Do you think the Little Ladies Steele are up to putting the vegetables on the skewers?" he wondered aloud, rubbing his chin and lifting a brow comically. The girls giggled, as much at the name they were called as his affect.

"Uh-huh!" Livvie nodded.

"Yes!" Sophie exclaimed.

"Pay close attention, then, so you can do it as I do, then I'll need you to each make four," he instructed. As he skewered mushrooms, onions, zucchini and cherry tomatoes, he returned his attention to the conversation. "So no birth certificate, social security number issued until after the disappearance of our client's child, no mention of the child on a tax return until she was five-and-a-half, six-years-old. You don't think…?"

"I's done, Da," Holt announced, lifting up the bowl of lettuce he'd carefully finished tearing.

"And a fine job you've done, my boy," Remington praised. "Think you're up to adding the tomatoes and cheese?" Holt nodded his head eagerly.

"I'm a good helper!" he praised himself. Remington reached over and fondly ruffed his son's dark hair.

"You most certainly are, mo mhac," he concurred, before setting the bowls of cheese and sliced cherry tomatoes before him.

"I think there are enough oddities to warrant a visit with the Wright's tomorrow," Laura replied to Remington's prior question. "What does your schedule look like?"

"I've the SBA luncheon you roped me into at noon," he gave her a flick of his eyebrows in response to her sour look at his words, "And directly before that the Danforth Gallery to assess their expansion for security, but otherwise am as free as the proverbial bird the rest of the day."

"If you have Fred drop you at the SBA luncheon, I can pick you up and we can go to the Wright's from there," she suggested.

"Easily enough done," he agreed, as he covered the pan of potatoes with aluminum. "A moment," he requested, as he picked up the pan. "I need to set these on the grill if we want them done in time." Laura watched as he disappeared through the French doors. After taking another long sip of her wine, she sat her wine glass down on the counter, then stood and walked into the kitchen and watched as Livvie slipped the last mushroom on the skewer she held in hand.

"Alright girls, you've done a wonderful job helping with dinner. But now, hands washed, aprons off, and go finish your homework," she instructed, as she wet a cloth under the stream of water from the kitchen faucet. "As for you, little man," she spoke to Holt as she used the cloth to clean his hands while the girls scrambled down from their barstools to do as bade, "You can paint at the table while your sisters do their work. I've already put out your watercolors and paper."

"I gets to paint?" he asked hopefully, a pair of bright blue eyes peering up at her.

"You do!" she confirmed, with a smile. "In fact, why don't you paint _me_ a picture and I'll hang it up at the office? Whatta you say?" Stroking his dark hair, she dropped a kiss on top of his head, and lifted him down from the stool.

"Okay, Mommy!" Holt ran out of the kitchen and Laura turned to rinse out the washcloth and hang it on the rack to dry, before leaving the kitchen herself. Plucking up her wine glass from the counter, she addressed the children where they sat at the dining room table.

"I have to go to my office for a minute. Girls, I'll be back to set the table then check your work. Please keep an eye on your brother," she requested.

"Yes, Mommy," Sophie replied, looking up from her math book.

"Okay, Mommy," Livvie echoed, pausing with her spelling words.

Glass of wine in hand, Laura wended her way through family room, entry way, formal living room and to her office. She sat down heavily in her chair, and fingered the slip of paper Remington had given her nine days previously. Staring sightlessly at the unfamiliar writing, she recalled Remington's words…

* * *

" _ **You're entitled to what your father never permitted you by virtue of disappearing as he did: Explanations."**_

* * *

And then Mildred's….

* * *

 _ **"Honey, you may not like the answers, but you need to ask the questions. It's time to put the past to rest, don't you think?"**_

* * *

Played on auto-loop in her head.

When she'd permitted herself to dwell for any length of time these last days on her father's reappearance, she found herself tied into knots. The heartfelt desires of the girl she'd once been warred constantly with certain truths the woman she'd become had learned.

The young girl who'd once loved and needed her father more than _anything or anyone_ else, wanted nothing more than to set the past aside, to step into the embrace of the arms that she'd once acquainted with acceptance, joy, pride, peace… and love.

The woman had endured the pain of abandonment wanted to pretend he'd never reappeared.

But there was a truth to both what Remington and Mildred had said that couldn't be denied: She had the right to those answers, and she'd never get those answers should she continue to bury her head in the sand.

Taking a drink of wine to provide a bit of liquid fortification, she picked up the portable phone lying in its cradle on her desk and with heavy fingers, dialed the number on that slip of paper, then listened at the line rang once…. Twice…. Three times…

"'Lo?" the voice of a young male greeted. It took a second for her to find her voice.

"Jack Holt, please." It was all she could manage to mutter. Was it him? The boy her father had adopted, the son he had chosen to stay for? The girl who'd been abandoned by the same man absorbed the blow.

"Dad," the male called, "It's for you." So it was him, she noted somewhere in the back of her mind. Her brother… technically, at least. The woman she'd become examined her feelings and found she felt…. Nothing. The boy was no more than a stranger to her: Any boy, anywhere, an unrecognizable face in the crowd..

"Who is it?" she heard her father ask in the background.

"Didn't ask," came the reply.

"One day, John, one day I'll drum some phone etiquette into you," her father's laughing voice warned, as the phone rattled against the surface on which it had been laid.

"Hasn't worked so far," came the equally laughter filled reply.

"This is Jack Holt," her father's jovial voice came through the line.

"Hi, D-." She couldn't force the once beloved name past her lips, stuttered to a stop and tried again. "It's Laura," she said, simply.

"La…. Laura," he greeted, he being the one to stumble this time. "I was beginning to think…" He let the thought trail off, began again. "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear from you."

"I was wondering if you might be free tomorrow night to talk." A part of her prayed, fervently that he'd say he was unavailable.

"Yes!" He jumped on the opportunity. "Yes!" he repeated again. "I could meet you at your house any time—"

"Not at our house," she quickly cut him off. She might still be uncertain if she had the wherewithal to meet with him, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn't want him at the house, she didn't want the explanations that would be required. "The pier. Venice pier. Tomorrow at 6?"

"Whatever you want," he hurriedly agreed. "And, Laura? Thank you. Thank you for giving us another chance."

"Tomorrow at six. Goodbye." She hung up the phone decisively, and got to her feet. In just that brief conversation, the old wound of his betrayal had been ripped open wide, and it took all of her will to force back the cloying fear and heartache that had once nearly consumed her. Numbly, she left her office to return to her family.

"Da, I's painting a picture for Mommy," Holt announced, as Remington returned from the patio to retrieve the steaks and kabobs in anticipation of the Piper's arrival shortly. By his estimation, they'd have about a half hour for the children to play and the adults to enjoy a bit of conversation before dinner was ready. He detoured to the dining room, to admire his son's handiwork.

"And a fine painting it is, my boy," he complimented. Holt beamed up at him.

"Me and mommy are mak-ed-ing a caskle."

"A very impressive rendition, indeed," Remington praised again. Remington and Laura had both taken notice that their young son seemed to inherit his father's artistic bent, his drawing and paintings already rivaling those of his older sisters. He looked about the family room and peered into the kitchen. "Where has your mother gotten off to?"

"I had a quick phone call to make," Laura answered, as she entered the family room and walked directly towards the kitchen, to gather plates and utensils for the table outside.

"About the Jefferson case?" he questioned as he shadowed her into the other room.

"No," she answered, providing no further discourse. He lifted a brow at the back of her head, but opted not to pursue the matter. Picking up the tray of kabobs and platter of steaks, he returned to the terrace. She followed behind him only moments later, walking directly to the long dining table position there. Sliding the kabobs and steaks in the compact fridge, he went back inside, returning with stemware, then made a second journey to retrieve glasses for the children.

"Would you mind taking the girls to dance tomorrow night?" she asked. His hand paused where he was positioning a wine glass at the upper corner of a plate.

"Not at all," he readily agreed, although his eyes watched every nuance of her face, picking up the strain around her eyes and lips. "Planning an evening out with Bernice or Jocelyn?" he asked casually, as he resumed placing goblets and glasses around the table while keeping his eyes upon her from beneath his lashes. She stilled and closed her eyes, then with a nod far more to herself than him, reopened her eyes and continued her task with the silverware.

"It's time to ask those questions, Mr. Steele." His head bobbed up and he stared, slack-jawed at her. He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd announced she'd decided to retire as a detective and planned to run off to join the circus. Why just this morning… He gave his head a mental shake and gathered his faculties.

"Your father," he remarked, quite unsmoothly. His announcement of the obvious drew her weary look.

"Six o'clock at Venice Pier." She looked towards the house, then gave him a look that stunned him more than the announcement as it was akin to a plea for understanding. Laura Steele did not plead: She directed, commanded, acted decisively. She might apologize for a misjudgment or misstep, but she did not plead. Her shoulders sagged. "I don't want him at the office, and I can't have him here." Had she believed he wouldn't understand that she would instinctively protect what mattered most to her until she was certain there was no threat to be had? He said as much.

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't guard what's most important." As hoped, the strain around her eyes lessened and a smile flitted across her lips. There were still those days that she wondered how she could have ever doubted him, for from the day they'd met he'd never wavered in his support.

She lay down the silverware and thought to go to him, when the chime of the doorbell drew both of their eyes to the house. The timing left her lips twitching with laughter. Phones ringing, doorbells buzzing, gunshots sounding – interruptions at the most inopportune time had long been the story of their lives together. Tonight, the insistent peeling of that bell could wait a moment. She went to him, and when she stood before him, she gave him a rueful look, as she drew her hands through his hair.

"You put the steaks on, I'll get the door," she directed, then pressed up on her toes and drew his head down, to bestow a soft, full lipped kiss upon his lips.

An instant later he found his arms empty, the promise of what might later be on the evening leaving him whistling a contented tune.

* * *

 _ **A/N: For those still speculating there is a link between the Jefferson's and Jack Holt, there is not, although the Jefferson case plays an integral role in things to come. Can you guess what that might be?**_

 _ **PS I have had several inquiries of late as to my well being. 2018 has been a challenging year, to say the least, including the most recent delays due to a serious bout of pneumonia. Well on the mend, my fingers are itching to write. Thanks, to each of you, for your kindness in asking**_


	15. Chapter 11: A Family Affair

Chapter 11: A Family Affair

Years before, beginning shortly after Remington and Laura's return from the Grecian honeymoon, the families of the two Holt sisters had established a tradition: Bi-weekly luncheons or dinners, alternating between the Steele's and Piper's homes. Normally, these every other Sunday gatherings would last hours, allowing for good food and pleasant conversation while nieces and nephews played under watchful eyes. It was a rare occasion when the ticking of a clock would dictate the direction the day or evening would take, but tonight was an exception, as the next day would arrive with an early start as children were packed off to school and three of the parents went to work. Dinner, only, it was to be then and Laura found herself thankful for that, as she longed for a quiet evening with Remington as a fire blazed nearby. Nevertheless, a welcoming – and sincere – smile graced her face as she swung open the front door of the house to greet their guests.

She blinked – hard – but barely had time to process what she was seeing before Frances, in that chattering, high strung way of hers, steamrolled past her.

"I'm sorry we're late, Laura," Frances announced, while bestowing a one armed hug upon Laura. "I couldn't tear Donald away from building the toy box, even though I kept warning him we'd be late if we didn't get on our way."

Donald gave Laura an apologetic look while bussing her on her cheek.

"We're not late, Frannie," he reminded her for the umpteenth time. "We're actually a few minutes early."

"Had we left when I asked, I could have leant Laura and Remington a hand with dinner. You know how I feel about guests contributing," she continued to admonish before turning her attention to her sister. "Where are the children?"

"In the dining room. The girls are finishing their homework and Holt is painting. Frances—"

"I'll just see if I can be of some help. Alex has been talking all afternoon about playing with his cousins." As she babbled Frances walked away and into the family room, Donald hot on her trail trying to mollify her.

"Sorry, Aunt Laura. Mom's been driving him crazy all the way here," Laurie Beth share, as she and her aunt exchanged hugs. At fourteen, despite her mother's temperament, Laura's youngest niece had grown into a beautiful, sedate young lady who allowed Frances's tendency to nag to simply roll off her back.

"Should I ask?" Laura questioned, slanting her eyes toward the family room where her sister had disappeared to. In an affect much like her aunt's, Laurie Beth rolled her eyes heavenward then smiled.

"You better let Mom tell you. She's been complaining since late week that she tried the night you talked on the phone but you just cut her off." Laura visibly winced. A put out Frances was not something to look forward to.

"Alright," she drew out the word. "Well, Uncle Remington's out back cooking if you want to go say hi." She eyed the backpack slung over a shoulder. "Homework?"

"A ton. I asked to stay home, but you know Mom." Laura slung an arm around her niece's shoulders.

"Yeah, I do," she commiserated. "A dollar says your uncle already has the fire lit out back." The teen looked at her gratefully.

"Thanks, Aunt Laura." She watched as Laurie Beth passed through the dining room and out the terrace doors before turning to Frances.

"Frances, would you like to help me finish setting the table?" It wasn't that she needed assistance but she did need her curiosity assuaged.

"I'd be happy to," Frances replied giving her husband a look that fairly shouted 'I told you so." Laura in turn mouthed a silent apology to him as she certainly hadn't intended to provide substance to her sister's gripes.

Outside, Remington set aside his spatula at the grill, to offer his greetings to his sister-in-law.

"Frances, so glad you could join us this evening," he told her warmly, while leaning in to brush lips to cheek. "And who have we here?" he inquired, "A little friend of Alex's?"

It was the very mystery Laura was intent on solving. The large brown eyed, dark haired little girl propped on Frances's hip since her arrival appeared too young to be a playmate of her newest nephew, and Frances has strolled into the house as though there was nothing odd about the precious cargo she was carrying.

"Well, as I tried to tell Laura the last time we spoke," she shot an accusatory look at her little sister, "Two weeks ago, we were informed by Social Services that Alex had a little sister they'd never mentioned to us before. We—"

"She's Alex's _sister_?" Laura couldn't help but interrupt, stunned. Her eyes flickered to her husband who was as visibly surprised as she.

"Esme. Esmerelda," Frances smiled down at the little girl. "We were led to believe by our original social worker that he only had the sister who—" she looked down at the child again and tailored her words "…The older sister. The foster family who had taken in Esme planned to move forward with the adoption but…" she glanced at the child again, added, sotto voice "A divorce." She smiled down at the little girl reassuringly. "When the social worker asked if we would be interested in adopting her, well, we couldn't very well say no. She's Alex's sister, and we have the room. And since we've barely just finished Alex's adoption, it should be official in under two months."

"If only I had been so fortunate to run across a Donald and Frances Piper in my childhood," Remington praised, quietly. "You are truly an extraordinary couple." Frances blushed profusely at the compliment.

"We're only doing what's right," she demurred. Laura slung an arm around her sister and have her a hug.

"I'm so proud of you." Remington disappeared back to his grill to give the sisters a bit of privacy.

"It all started with Sophie," Frances reminded.

"Yes, but you didn't have to take up the gauntlet as you've done and run with it. Alex and Esme are very lucky to have the two of you."

"No," Frances disagreed. "I think we're the lucky ones. I was so lost when Danny and Mindy went off to college. The house was so quiet, and with Laurie Beth as independent as she is, no one really needed me any longer. I know you've never respected it, but the only thing I've ever wanted to be was a wife and mother." Laura grimaced at the age old argument that had once driven a wedge between them.

"Frances, I never looked down on you for it," she defended. "I just always thought you could be so much more. But believe me," she cut a hand in front of herself in emphasis, "When Remington and I stayed with the children only that _one_ night during the Bright Age Cosmetics case, I wasn't sure _I_ could ever be a mother. There isn't a chore board or list long enough to account for all the variables. Believe me when I say, I couldn't do it now if it wasn't for Lena, Mia and Remington, not to mention Thomas, Catherine and Mildred. Don't get me wrong, I love my children with all my heart, but I'm not…" she scrunched her face looking for the right word "….as selfless as you. I _need_ my job, my triathlons, my time alone with Remington when we're not Mommy and Da, but just Laura and Remington. I don't' look down on you," she denied again. "I _admire_ you," she declared passionately. Her eyes suddenly widened as Frances's welled. "Oh, Frances, don't cry," she half-pled, half-sighed.

"I can't help it," Frances replied, as the tears slipped over the rim of her eyes.

"Oh, Frances," Laura sighed aloud this time and looked across the terrace to Remington for help. He caught her woeful look out the corner of his eye and after a quick double take, understood the message.

"I hate interrupt," he called in their direction, "But dinner is ready to be served, if you wouldn't mind rounding the troops." The request served to be the distraction he'd meant, as the etiquette drilled into the Holt women immediately kicked in. Frances quickly wiped away her tears, put on a smile then faced him.

"Remington, is there anything I anything I can do to help?" she offered.

"IF you'd be so kind to get another place setting for our newest family member and pour the children's milk, it would be most appreciated," he replied. Laura shot him a grateful look over Frances's shoulder.

"I'll let everyone know," she volunteered.

* * *

Mealtime when the Steele's and Piper's gathered had never been precisely sedate affairs, but geared more towards the children, far more so as both families had continued to expand. This evening, Remington sat at the head of the table, with Laura to his right and seated next to her, young Holt followed by Esme then Frances; to his left, Sophie, Livvie and Alex with Donald sitting opposite of Remington. Once everyone was seated and food doled out, Laura looked at the girls, then to Holt. Laurie Beth had presented Laura with a beseeching look, and with a bit of intervention on her part, Frances agreed Laurie Beth could dine alone by the fireplace while attending to her schoolwork, the headphones of her Walkman providing distraction from what was often an animated dining affair behind her.

"Sophie, Livvie, Holt, Aunt Frances and Uncle Donald have some _very_ exciting news," Laura announced. She looked to her sister to continue.

"Children, this is Esmerelda, Alex's little sister," Frances introduced, as Donald reached for her hand and took it in his. "She is three-years-old—"

"Like me!" Holt exclaimed, excited by the presence of someone his own age.

"Just like you," Donald agreed. "And she likes to be called Esme. Your Aunt Frances and I, just like Alex, will be Esme's new Mommy and Daddy, and she'll be _your_ cousin."

"Like Mommy and Da and me!" Sophie interjected. Remington took his smallest daughter's hand in his and leaned down to buss it on the knuckles.

"Just like Mommy, you and me, a thaisce," he confirmed.

"Do you got to preschool like Holt and like me and Sophie did?" Livvie questioned the younger girl.

"Not no more," Esme offered in a soft voice.

"She'll start right after Christmas, when the new term begins," Frances explained, "But for right this second, as we get to know each other and she settles in, she and are spending some time alone together while Alex and Laurie Beth are at school, and Uncle Donald is at work."

"Livvie and I did ballet when we were three," Sophie chimed in. "Do you do ballet too?" A pair of large, brown eyes regarded Frances. The thought hadn't occurred to her that Esme might like to attend dance classes. The expansion of their family was so new to all of them, and all of her focus had been on making certain Esme knew she was welcome in their home and felt secure, given the recent upheaval in her life.

"Esme, would you like to take dance lessons?" she wondered.

"I like to dance," the little girl offered.

"Then first thing tomorrow I'll see about finding you a dance class," Frances declared.

"She can go to our school!" Livvie offered, eagerly.

"That's a lovely idea, Olivia," Frances told her niece, "But your school is a long drive for us, and Esme would be very tired each night. I think it's best if we find a school close to us, and then you can attend her recitals just like she'll attend yours."

"Okay!" Livvie readily agreed.

"I'm gonna start soccer Saturday!" Alex introduced his own news.

"Soccer?" Olivia repeated with a bounce in her seat. "I've always and always and always wanted to play soccer!"

"Me too!" Sophie seconded.

"Me, free!" Holt chimed in.

"Well, they are doing city wide sign-ups for the winter session," Frances offered, looking at her sister, then turned her look to Holt, an apology on her face, "But you have to be five to play." At Holt's crestfallen look, Laura ruffed her small son's head.

"It's not that far off, little man. You'll be four in only a few months, and five comes right after that," she consoled, then, fingering her throat, looked at Remington. With dance classes and gymnastics, the girls were already busy three late afternoons each week. They'd have to rely heavily on Mia if they were to add another activity, not to mention they'd likely have to make some adjustments to their own schedules in order to accommodate this newest request. He shrugged a careless shoulder.

"We'll make it work, don't we always?" Yeah, they did, with a little help from nanny, family and friends as she'd said to Frances earlier.

"Alright, I'll have Bernice make a phone call in the morning and see if we can get the information faxed to the office." She gave a shrug of her own while Livvie and Sophie smiled widely at one another. "Who knows, maybe Bo would be interested." A thought occurred to her. "You might want to mention it to Monroe as well, for Elijah." He nodded his head a singular time.

"That I can do."

Twin squeals of delight had all heads turning to Sophie and Livvie as they bolted from their seats and ran towards the guest cottages.

"MIri!"

Their former nanny turned and managed to stoop down right before a pair of whirling dervishes threw themselves into her open arms. Holt quickly scrambled down from his feet and ran towards the young woman as well.

Mirabella, or 'Miri' as the children had referred to her, had been the children's nanny from not long after Holt's birth in '91 until the prior June when she had completed her Master's Degree. It had been difficult, at first, for Miri to win over Sophie who'd bee afraid of just about everyone after years of verbal and emotional abuse at her father's hands, not to mention after witnessing her mother's brutal murder. But, won them over, she had, and when the time had come for her to move on, all three children had been devastated. When Miri had made the suggestion that her younger sister, Mia, assume the role of nanny, the Steele's had been on board. The children were familiar with Mia, as they themselves were, after the younger woman had visited her sister frequently over the years. The casual conversation about the Steele's own work had, in fact, inspire Mia to declare a major of criminal justice. Still, Miri had stayed an extra month to allow the children and Mia time to bond, and now, much like Mia had her, Miri visited on occasion to the utter delight of the children.

"We missed you, Miri!" Sophie told her, as she hugged the woman's neck tightly.

"We're gonna play soccer," Livvie shared.

"You are?! You must be _very_ excited," Miri answered in an exaggerated tone.

"I maded Mommy a picture tonight," Holt added, as she released the girls and enfolded him in her arms, then stood with him perched on her hip. Of all the Steele children, Holt would always hold an extra special place in her heart since she'd been with him since he was an infant, and she'd watched as he'd first crawled, then walked, began to talk.

"Will you show it to me?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded happily.

"Well, then let's go." She climbed the short stairway to the elevated terrace and carried him towards to dinner table, Mia, Livvie and Sophie following behind. Ever the gentleman, Remington automatically stood as former and current nanny neared.

"Miri, wonderful to see you," he greeted warmly, with a buss on her cheek. "Have you and Mia eaten this evening?"

"Actually, we were just discussing what to make," Mia answered for her sister.

"Then you'll have to join us," he insisted, then indicated the table with an out swept arm. "As you can see, we've more than enough for all." Neither young woman dared to refuse, as Mr. Steele would be insulted if they were to do so… not to mention to do so would have meant they'd gone a bit mad: Mr. Steele's meals were culinary mastery.

"Miri camed to see my picture," Holt informed his father.

"After we finish the meal, mo mhac," he qualified, taking his son from Miri's arm, and carrying him back to his seat. "We have company, and it would be rude to leave the table." He sat Holt back in his chair, then indicated the two vacant ones between Donald and Alex. "Please, have a seat. I'll just step inside and get your dinner ware."

"Olivia said they're about to start soccer?" Mia inquired. Laura nodded as she answered.

"A new development just tonight, actually," she confirmed. "Nothing's written in stone yet. I still need to make sure it won't conflict with dance or gymnastics. But if it comes to fruition, we may need you to help with their practices."

"Of course," Mia readily agreed. She – much like Mirabella – had never known anyone quite like the Steele's. Generous didn't even begin to describe them. They not only provided room, board and a salary generous enough to prevent Mirabella before her and now Mia from relying on student loans to pay tuition, but they made certain their every weekday morning was free through one in the afternoon so they could attend classes. In all honesty, their workday began late afternoon and wrapped at dinner; they had weekends off except for Saturday nights when the Steele's went out, and on evenings when pressing business matters and charitable functions demanded their attention. There was little, if anything, that either Mirabella or herself would refuse them. She regarded the little girl studying her from across the table. "I'm Mia. What's your name?" she asked the child.

"Esme," the little girl politely replied, then offered nothing further.

"Esme is Alex's sister," Frances filled the young woman in. "We've just begun the adoption process." Mia's brow furrowed, confused.

"I thought Alex's sister—" She stopped herself, and she shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Alex had two sisters, not only one, as we were led to believe," Frances explained.

"Are you excited about the seminar tomorrow evening, Mia?" Laura wondered. An eager smile lit the nanny's face as Remington set plates, silverware and glasses before her and Mirabella.

"I am. Mary Ellen O'Toole from the FBI will be presenting a psychological profile of the Green River Killer along with how that profile compares to suspects since the—" she looked at the young faces around her and selected her words carefully "—crimes began."

"Sounds like my cup of tea," Laura commented.

"You could come with me," Mia offered. "It's open to the public." Laura looked at the nanny with sincere regret painting her face

"Any other night, I'd probably take you up on the offer," she declined, Remington reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze as he resumed his seat, "But tomorrow night I have plans that can't be changed." Frances's lips parted to ask what those were, but a pursed-lipped minute shake of Remington's head warned her off.

"So, Mirabella, how do you like your new job?" Frances inquired.

"I love it. The work is challenging…" Mirabella continued to regale the adults with details of her job as an accountant with the City of Los Angeles as Frances eyed Laura wondering what was going on.

* * *

When dinner was over, table cleared and the dishes were cleaning in the dishwasher, Mirabella and Mia departed while the children were sent to the playroom for a half hour of promised play and the adults settled in for a nice glass of chilled Chablis – except for Donald who waved it off in favor of a cup of coffee…

"Designated driver," he deadpanned, although all at the table knew his lack of fondness for wine.

And a white chocolate and raspberry tart, that Donald happily dug into. As often as he got onto Frances about her obsession with chocolate, he was completely powerless not to overindulge in Remington's desserts.

"What are you doing tomorrow night, Laura?" Frances asked, returning to the question Remington had warned her off of earlier. Laura winced, unsure of how her sister would react, although there was a better than even chance that either waterworks or hysteria would be involved. She saw her potential salvation when she spied Melina and Jacoby walking down the pathway towards Melina's cottage.

"Lina, Jacoby, come join us for dessert," she called to the couple. Lina scrunched her face, a guilty blush creeping up her neck to pinken her face, while her older brother's blue eyes twinkled with amusement at her discomfort. Three years after Laura and Jocelyn had hired Jacoby Elliot to act as attorney for the domestic abuse foundation they'd created in honor of Clarissa – and more importantly, their blonde haired, green eyed daughter – Melina and the attorney continued to squabble vociferously, reminding him much of Laura and himself during their early years. The pair ran the foundation with aplomb and spent most of their free time together, but Melina continued to vehemently deny there was anything personal between them… despite the fact Remington had caught the two in a clinch on several occasions.

"Working late?" he quipped, a teasing smile dancing on his lips as the couple sat down where Sophie and Livvie had been seated during dinner. Laura stood then disappeared into the house.

"As as a matter of fact, Xen, yes, we are," Lina answered, defensively. "We're meeting with opposing counsel tomorrow and wish to assure ourselves we are prepared. Well,"she relented, "Him more so than I, given it will actually be he presenting our facts to the attorney."

"The Lutzman family?" Laura wondered, having returned to hear part of the conversation.

"Yes," Melina confirmed. "The information given us by Zack and Celek along with the records Marvin collected is quite enough to prove not only that Carver Lutzman is a faithless rat," the corner of Remington's mouth twitched at Lina's use of one of Mildred's favored insults, "But that he is both a cowardly abuser and a man who would embezzle from his own family to keep them prisoners." Gina Lutzman had come to Clarissa's Closet – the thrift store arm of the foundation – four months prior, desperate and pleading for help. The Foundation had provided Lutzman and her three elementary school aged children a safe house in Glendora, a pro bono attorney in the form of Jacoby, and Zack, Celek and Marvin had volunteered their investigative skills free of charge.

"Hopefully they'll be free of him for good, very shortly," Laura championed. The minute custody was decided and part of the family funds were in hand, the mother and her children were moving to the opposite side of the country. Jacoby's influential family had already secured a home that they'd live in rent free for a year while the family got firmly back on their feet again – paid for by the foundation.

"They will so long as I can convince Jacoby to – how do you say it? – stick to the facts and no to get lost in his storytelling." Laura laughed softly.

"Sounds familiar," Laura commiserated, drily. Two men's brows furrowed at the insults, direct and veiled, making Donald choke on his tart when he laughed. "How are plans for the Christmas fundraiser coming?" she questioned, patently ignoring the two offended men. While not even mid-October it might seem absurd to be concerned about the annual Christmas fundraiser that benefited both Lost Souls Mission and the Foundation, they'd found the last three years that it could take months to find the venue, plan the menus and to secure reservations to the five-thousand a plate affair. Melina, however, positively beamed at the question.

"At Xen's suggestion we reserved the ballroom at the Four Seasons and as soon as we made it known Dorothy Lamour, Virginia Mayo, Lloyd Nolan, Veronica Kirk, Derek Vivyan and 'Atomic Man' were going to be in attendance we sold just over a hundred plates. The ballroom will be draped in creams, gold and crystals," Lina elaborated, "And there will not only be a live orchestra playing nostalgic songs, but we will have a silent auction as well. Jocelyn has been committed to securing items that will fetch a fair amount."

"I'm impressed," Laura honestly praised.

"Yes, well, it was one of my better ideas, if I do say so myself," Remington congratulated himself, while mimicking straightening his tie. She rolled her eyes heavenward and gave a shake of her head.

"I meant by Lina," she clarified. "And the date?"

"December seventeenth. Do not fear, I will not allow anything to delay our arrival in Vail." Jacoby brows lifted slightly.

"I can't remember ever seeing you so excited about a trip to Vail," he observed, with open curiosity. She slanted him a sideways look and a coy smile played on her lips.

"Perhaps my excitement has a great deal with who is coming this year," she suggested. Remington coughed to cover the laugh that has burst out as a single note when he'd seen jealousy traipse through the man's eyes and stiffen the man's jaw. Jacoby forced a carefree smile onto his face.

"Planning a reunion with a mysterious man from your past?" he feigned nonchalance. Annoyance flashed through Lina's eyes and she averted her face.

"Something like that," she replied in a pique. Remington's eyes darted back and forth between sister and the attorney. Even on their worst of days, Laura and he had never approached the level of denial these two had attained. Had they? The smirk on his wife's face suggested otherwise.

"Well, I wish you the best of luck tomorrow. The Lutzman's certainly deserve some peace." Frances straightened slightly in her seat, seeing her opening.

"Speaking of tomorrow, Laura, what are those mysterious plans of yours?" _Damn, damn, damn, damn and double damn,_ Laura lamented. She looked to Remington for a diversion and instead found a hand covering hers and a pair of intense blue eyes that insisted she could do this. With a frown and resigned huff, she faced her sister.

"I've agreed to meet Dad tomorrow night to talk," she confessed then, mentally grimacing, prepared for the explosion that was to come.

"Oh." A singular word. That was all. She waited… then waited some more. Frances grew uncomfortable as her little sister continued to stare expectantly. Clearing her throat Frances addressed Jacoby. "Do you go back East during the holidays, Jacoby?"

"I haven't the past couple of years, but it looks like I have no reason not to this year," he answered. Remington's eyes had shifted slightly towards Lina so he might watch her. The way she thinned her lips and shot a laser sharp look in Jacoby's direction reminded him of his wife.

The very wife who was about to show a bit of her infamous temper if he were to guess, correctly.

"Oh?" Laura asked, still staring at her sister in disbelief. "'Oh'. That's all you have to say?" she demanded to know, voice rising. "I tell you I've agreed to meet with the father we haven't heard from in twenty-two-years and all you have to say is 'oh'?" She threw a hand up in the air in frustration.

"Now, Laura, I don't know what you want me to say," Frances answered with remarkable calm.

"Something! Anything!" Laura growled. Even as she was speaking, she had no idea why she was upset. Shouldn't she be relieved that Frances hadn't taken the news with her normal dramatics? But she didn't feel relieved. Instead she felt…

Alone.

"I've had time to think about it, and it's just not the same for me and Father as it is for you," Frances tried to explain. "He and I were never close. I haven't even really thought about him all these years, except when I was angry at him for what he did to Mother," she looked down at her lap, feeling as if she were divulging a secret in public, "and to you. Donald and I have spoken about it and I suppose the children might like to meet their grandfather if that's what he wants." Laura pushed back her chair and stood up.

"I wish I could be so cavalier," she commented coolly. "Melina, thanks for getting the girls tomorrow. Jacoby, direct and to the point tomorrow, don't confuse the opposition with obsolete details. It's time for me to get the children to bed," she announce as she walked to the end of the table and pecked Donald on his cheek. "Thanks for coming." With those final words, she disappeared into the house.

Lina immediately pushed back her chair and began to stand.

"Lina, leave it be," Remington ordered quietly, waving her down back into her seat. She scowled fiercely at her older brother.

"She is suffering, Xen," she snapped. "It is not our way to allow those we care about to suffer alone," she threw down the gauntlet, "As you well know from Mama and Papa." He openly winced as the blow found its mark. Lifting a hand, he swiped at his mouth.

"Laura's not suffering, Lina, she's struggling," he corrected, wearily. "She'll speak when she's ready and not a moment before. It's her way," he gave her a pointed look, "As you well know." She sat down with a huff and crossed her arms, glowering at him. He'd pulled the ace out of his sleeve and had known it. It was also the Androkus way to honor the wishes of others, despite your own.

"I didn't mean to upset Laura," Frances fretted. "I just told her how I honestly feel." This time it was she who stood. "Donald, I think it would be best if we go now."

"Frances," Remington stood as well as he protested, "You don't have to leave, just—" But Frances wouldn't be swayed.

"It's time to get the children to bed, anyway," she interrupted. "We should have been on our way home long before now. It's a school night. Donald, if you'll let Laurie Beth know we're leaving, I'll get Alex and Esme."

"Jacoby, it's late, and we've still much work to do." Melina announced crisply as she stood. "Xen," she nodded her head coolly at her brother.

"Remington, thank you for the desert and the wine."Jacoby offered his hand.

"Pleasure." The two men exchanged handshakes, then Jacoby dutifully followed Meilna to her cottage.

"A wonderful meal, as always," Donald complimented, with a slap to the back of Remington's shoulder.

"Goodnight, Uncle Remington." Laurie Beth pressed up on her toes and gave her favorite uncle a hug goodnight. "Tell Aunt Laura not to let Mom get to her, she's in denial." The unexpected nugget of wisdom coming from his teenaged niece, knitted his brows together.

"Whatever do you mean?" he questioned.

"Well, how would you feel? My grandfather, I guess you'd call him, barely paid attention to my Mom when she was a kid and now that he's back, he hasn't even tried to get in touch with her like Aunt Laura. She doesn't want to get her hopes up that she'll actually matter to him this time around." Behind his daughter's back, Donald tilted his head to the side and made a face that suggested his daughter might be on to something. Laying a hand on Laurie Beth's shoulder, he guided her towards the doors that led inside the house.

"Tell Laura I said goodnight," Donald called back over his shoulder.

With those parting words, Remington found himself quite alone on the terrace with a bevy of plates, stemware and silverware awaiting him. With a sigh, he set to work.

* * *

After cleaning dishes, terrace table then the kitchen, Remington checked on the children. The girls slept soundly, while his ever restless sleeper of a son required another good tucking in. In a bit of cat-and-mouse, Laura feigned sleep when he entered the master bedroom. Resignedly, he gathered his clothing and sequestered himself in bathroom to complete his evening ablutions. Slipping beneath sheets and comforter, he stretched out on his back, lying silently for several minutes.

"Laura…" He spoke the single word so softly in the dim room, it could have been a whisper.

He didn't need to wait long, for she rolled to him, and tucking herself into his side, lay her head on his shoulder and an arm across his waist.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Since leaving the terrace, she'd been kicking herself for ruining the evening as she had. Wrapping his arm firmly around her, he bent down his head and pressed his lips, lingeringly, to the top of her head.

"You've nothing to apologize for," he dismissed. A long minute ticked by before she spoke again.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed.

"You will once you have all the facts," he told her with confidence. "And when you do, whatever your decision, I'll be in your corner." Her soft sigh tugged at his heart. With the tip of a single finger, he tipped her head back until her dull brown eyes met his avid blue ones. "You're no more alone in this, love, than you allowed me to be when Father decided it was time to come clean. I'm right here, just as you were for me."

That he knew what she'd been feeling left her blinking her eyes rapidly and tilting her back downwards to hide. And just as he'd known what had been going through her head earlier, when she wriggled even closer to him, he understood what she was saying now.

"It'll all work out, love."

"I hope so…" she replied, not believing it for a second.


	16. Chapter 12: What Child Is This?

Chapter 12 - What Child Is This?

Remington and Laura stepped off the elevator at the apartment building on Burton way. With a glance at the closest doors down each side of the hallway, in sync they turned to the right. In an uncharacteristically nervous gesture for Laura, she fingered her purse containing the materials entrusted to her by Barb that morning. Ever observant, he noticed, of course, and stopped her shortly before they reached their targeted apartment. Her anxiety over meeting with Jack Holt that evening had steadily mounted throughout the morning leaving her alternately snappish and pensive. If not for her ability to compartmentalize, he'd have suggested they postpone the interview, but now he was second-guessing that decision. He was met by an impatient scowl when he turned and faced her.

"Are you sure today is the best of days to be doing this?" he hazarded to ask.

"Our client needs answers, Mr. Steele," she reminded him, coolly.

"Yes, yes," he agreed, "But you've a lot on your mind—"

"I'm fine," she snapped. He closed in on her, bracing himself with a hand to the wall, he effectively trapped her between said wall and his body. Determined blue eyes met with mutinous brown ones.

"No, you're not," he dared contradict, "And I wouldn't expect you to be. Need I remind you, again, that no too terribly long ago I went through a similar experience? Did you expect me to carry on with business as usual as we sorted it all out?" She ducked beneath his arm, unwilling to have this particular conversation.

"Let's keep our mind on business, shall we, Mr. Steele?" He glared at the back of her head.

"Of course, Miss Holt." The use of the name found its spot, and she winced at the accompanying sting. He reserved the name for those times when he was most displeased with her or when he felt she was shutting him out. Stubbornly, she held her ground, opening her purse and removing her credentials. He mimicked the action, removing his from his coat pocket, then knocked on the door without looking to her for the go ahead. After a pause, he knocked again.

"Hold on," a male voice called from behind the wooden door. Less than a half minute later, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with sleep reddened eyes, five o'clock shadow, and salt and pepper hair sticking up on end on one side of his head and lying flat on the other.

"David Luther?" Remington inquired. The man's eyes shifted back and forth between Remington and Laura, before answering.

"Yes?" he answered, clearly questioning who it was asking.

"Remington Steele," Remington introduced himself, holding up his credentials. "My partner, Laura Steele." David's brows furrowed as Laura held up her identification.

"Cops?" he wondered.

"Detectives," Laura corrected. "The private kind." Something in David's head clicked, and he looked closer at Remington.

"Hey, you're the guy in the paper all the time!" Laura rolled her eyes, while Remington grinned.

"Mr. Luther, would you mind if we come in?" she requested. "We have a case we're working on, and you could be of invaluable assistance." The man's brows drew together again, but he stepped back, offering entrance.

"I can't imagine how I can help you. The truth is, we live a pretty boring life. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep and then do it all over again." He closed the door behind the detective duo, then held out an arm towards a sofa and chairs. "Have a seat if you want. Can I get you something to drink? I think we've got Coke and orange juice."

"We're fine, thank you," Laura replied as she took a seat in one of the chairs. Remington roamed the room as he was inclined to do.

"You have a beautiful family," he complimented, with a nod towards a picture hanging on the wall.

"Thanks, we think so," David smiled as he sat down on the well-loved couch.

"Mr. Luther, is your wife home?" Laura inquired. He shook his head in answer.

"Ange and I work opposite shifts so one of us is always here with our daughter. Like two ships in the night, we are, seeing each other a couple hours a day if we're lucky." He peered at a clock hanging on the living room wall above the TV. "She should be home in ten, maybe fifteen minutes." Remington picked up a picture from a shelf and held it up for David.

"Your daughter, Jessica, correct? Beautiful girl." The frown returned. He hadn't mentioned his daughter's name.

"What is this about?" he demanded to know.

"To be honest, that's what we're trying to figure out," Laura told the man, truthfully. "Our client's child went missing twelve years ago and she believes—" David bolted up from the couch.

"This can't be happening again!" he exclaimed, his frustration apparent in the way he pressed both hands to the back of his head, his eyes moving back and forth between Laura and Remington.

"Again?" Remington wondered.

"When Jess was in first… No, second grade, she was accosted by a woman claiming to be Jess's mother." Remington stepped out of the way as the man began to frantically pace. "The woman was banned from the school, but Jess was so terrified by the whole thing that as soon as we even mentioned the word school she'd cry, get sick. We ended up transferring her to Christ the King, just so she could feel safe." He looked at Laura wide-eyed, naked fear in the depths of those dull blue eyes. "Is it her? How worried do we need to be here?" Laura held up her hands then dropped them.

"She never mentioned anything to us about a confrontation in a school. Did the school ever tell you or your wife the name of the woman?" He searched his mind then shook his head.

"If they did I don't remember it, but my wife might." Remington casually stepped in.

"You and I share a common passion, I see," he indicated another framed photograph, "Images of our families."

"They're my pride and joy," David replied, actually managing a wan smile. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for them." Remington nodded.

"Mmmm, yes, I feel the same." He gesticulated with a hand that Laura should join him. "Come, have a look." Only the slightest twitch of her left brow revealed she understood Remington's unspoken message: He'd found something. As she approached the framed pictures, allegedly to admire them, Remington unbuttoned his jacket and sat in the chair on the opposite side of David.

"They remind me of some of the pictures Vonn has sent us," she commented, quietly unsnapping her purse and reaching into it. "Great composition."

"Laura and I aren't just partners," Remington shared with David to as the man turned in his seat to face him. "We've been married going on eight years now." The personal information would go a long way to establishing in David's mind a parallel between himself and Remington, helping Remington to gain his confidence. He watched as Laura compared the picture she'd taken out of her purse with the one on the wall.

"Any kids?" David asked. Remington didn't have the feign the proud smile that automatically accompanied any mention of his children.

"Three, actually," he boasted, reaching into his jacket and removing his wallet. Opening it, he showed David the picture that held the place of honor in his wallet: A studio portrait of their family. "Our daughters are seven and six, our son three."

"Well, the apple didn't fall far from the tree with the youngest two," David laughed, quietly, relaxing as Remington had intended.

"No baby pictures?" Laura asked, as she pretended to continue perusing the snapshots. David looked up, squinting as he mentally shifted his attention from Remington.

"No, uh," he shook his head as though to clear it, "Ange's house burned down three, four months before we met. She lost everything and had come down to San Diego to get away from the memories."

"That's awful," Laura commiserated. "I'd be beside myself. She didn't even have a baby picture in her wallet that could be blown up?" David smiled, crookedly.

"Ange is not the wallet type. She's a 'throw a credit card, a few bucks and her identification into the back pocket of her jeans' type."

"I'm forever trying to get Laura to let go of those satchels she carries about with her everywhere." Laura scowled at him, and he grinned at having rankled her. "You said, before you met. You're not Jessica's father?" Of course, the detectives already knew the answer to that particular question.

"Jess's father died in an accident before she was born," David informed them. "I adopted her after Ange and I got married." Another parallel that could be exploited.

"Our oldest?" Remington indicated Sophie in the still held photograph. "We adopted her after her mother died, but regardless of who she was born to, she is as much ours as if she'd been born to us, and I dare anyone to say elsewise."

"That must have been very difficult for Angela," Laura stepped in, walking over to the chair Remington was sitting on and perching on the arm rest. "First, finding herself a single mother, then losing everything in a fire. I imagine her family's support meant a great deal to her." If they could locate a family member, no matter how distant, they might be able to confirm Angela hadn't been pregnant around the time of Jessica's birth.

"She has no family. It was only her and her folks. She lost them in a car accident when she was ten, then grew up in foster care."

All three looked at the door when it swung open. David bounded to his feet.

"I'm ho—" Angela – a slim, middle aged woman with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and clad in jeans and lightweight sweater – stuttered to a stop when she saw the two strangers standing in her living room.

"Ange, this is Remington Steele," David introduced. Remington stepped forward and offered the woman his hand.

"Pleasure," he greeted, then, in turn, introduced Laura. "Laura Steele, my partner."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Laura greeted, warmly. This was likely to soon be one of the worst days of the other woman's life. The last thing she needed was to feel was that she was under attack. Laura had no idea why Angela had done what she'd done, but she fully believe it hadn't been done out of malice.

"They're detectives, Ange," David filled his wife in. "They're here about Jess." The woman turned white as a ghost and swayed on her feet.

"What's happened to her? Is she hurt?" Ange babbled. "Where is she? I have to—"

"Ange, Ange, Oh God no," David soothed, pulling her into his arms and hugging her tight for a long second. He leaned back and looked at her. "Jess is fine. Mr. and Mrs. Steele just have some questions."

"Here, have a seat," Remington urged, taking her arm in his hand and guiding her to the chair Laura had vacated earlier. As he helped her down, he regarded David through his lashes. "Perhaps a glass of water?"

"Yeah, yeah, let me get it."

David rushed off to the kitchen to get the water, while Laura sat down at the end of the couch nearest to Angela. When the woman had drank some water and calmed sufficiently, Remington resumed the seat he'd left and David sat on the corner of the coffee table near his wife.

"Mrs. Luther," Laura began, "We were hired by a woman whose daughter went missing twelve years ago, a child she believes is your daughter, Jessica."

"Oh, no," Ange moaned, dropping her face into her hands, "Not again." She dropped her hands, frowning at first her husband, then Laura. "It's her isn't it?" she demanded to know. "What has she been doing? Watching her? Hiring detectives to spy on her? Why won't she just leave us alone?" The longer she spoke, the angrier the woman grew. When David reached for her hand, she shook it off.

"Well, it's our hopes we can end it all tonight… for all your sakes," she told the woman in an assuring tone while exchanging a look with Remington. "Where and when was Jessica born?"

"June eighth, nineteen-seventy-eight at Long Beach Memorial. Why?" Laura gesticulated with a hand.

"Well, your daughter would be almost a full year older than our client's then," she explained. "If we could see a copy of her birth certificate…?" Angela grabbed at the thread of hope offered.

"I'll get it," David volunteered hurriedly. When he disappeared into another room at the end of the living room, Angela grabbed at Laura's hand.

"Jess hasn't said anything. Your client, she hasn't talked to her, has she?" Angela asked, frantically. "Jess had nightmares for months the last time."

None of them were prepared for the ringing of the cell phone in Remington's pocket: Angela jumped, Laura flinched and Remington shifted sideways wondering what he'd rubbed up against. With an embarrassed smile, he reached into his pocket.

"My apologies, we're new to these," he said as he stood, and removing the phone from his pocket, flipped it open and hit the green button.

"Steele, here."

"Is Laura with you?" Bernice asked without preamble.

"Mother? Is everything alright?"

"What are you talking about, Mother? Is that some crack about my birthday next week? I'll have you know…"

Remington ignored Bernice as she continued to chew him out. He nodded towards the sliding glass doors he's spotted when he'd wandered the room.

"Would you mind?" he requested, while pretending to cover the mouthpiece. "She's getting a bit long in the tooth with her birthday next week and all, and I'm afraid her mind's begun to go."

"Long in the tooth?" Bernice fairly growled, as she stood up behind her desk at the Agency. "Oh, I'll show you teeth!"

"Be my guest," Angela answered, distractedly. "Did she talk to Jess?" she asked Laura again.

Remington stepped outside on the small balcony and closed the slider behind him as Bernice continued to threaten his personal welfare.

"...Just wait! Laura's—"

"Bernice—"

"…Gonna get—"

"Bernice—"

"…An earful—"

"Mrs. Wolf!" he barked, then turned and waggled his fingers as a pair of heads inside the living room turned to stair at him.

"What!?" she yelled.

"Call Jarvis at the LAPD," he instructed.

"Jarvis? What for? What have you and Laura gotten yourselves into this time?" Ignoring the question he rattled off the address.

"Tell him a child's been kidnapped." Bernice sat down, hard, in her chair.

"The Jefferson case?" she guessed, stunned.

"Precisely. But don't mind the details when you speak to Jarvis. The less you tell the man, the more inspired he becomes to find out the answers for himself."

"I'm on it."

He ended the call, then sliding open the door stepped back inside just as David emerged from the bedroom with a piece of paper in hand. A flick of Laura's eyes toward the picture he'd made her aware of earlier indicated she'd need it shortly. With David focused on the birth certificate and Angela and Laura speaking, he easily plucked the picture, frame and all, from the wall, then returned to his seat.

"Here it is." David handed Laura the birth certificate.

"Jessica Anna Sandberg, born June eighth nineteen-seventy-eight in Long Beach," she read aloud.

"See, she's our child. Now can you _please_ tell your client to leave us and our daughter alone?" This time Laura handed David a piece of paper.

"Mr. Luther, can you tell me who this is?" He looked down at the picture.

"It's Jess, but I don't remember ever seeing this picture before."

"Would you mind turning it over?" Laura requested. Confusion knitting his brow, he did as asked.

"'Lynn Marie, age 3,'" he read aloud. Angela gasped, she snatched the picture from her husband's hand. She pretended to examine the picture.

"It's not Jess at all," she disagreed, a plea in her eyes for her husband. Unseen Remington passed the framed picture to Laura. "Look, the shape of the brow is wrong, the hair line…"

"What are you talking about, Ange?" David demanded to know. "I know my own daughter, for God's sake."

"No!" she insisted. "It's not her! Look again. See—" Laura slipped the framed picture between the couple. David looked from it, to the picture in Angela's hand, then back at the frame picture again.

"It's over, Mrs. Luther," Laura informed the woman, gently, while reaching for her hand. Angela snatched it away as though she'd been burned, and left her seat to stand in the middle of the room.

"Jessica is _my_ daughter," she insisted, vehemently, then looked to her husband with a beseeching look. "She's _our_ daughter." He stared at her for several seconds then returned his gaze to the two pictures before him. She turned to Laura. "You have her birth certificate. Right there!" She thrust a pointed finger in the direction of the paper.

"A forged one," Laura dismissed, sadly. "We knew before coming here today that no child by the name of Jessica Anna Sandberg was born in the state of California on or near the date of birth on this piece of paper." David turned a little green around the gills at that information.

"What have you done, Angela?" he demanded to know, so quietly he'd barely been heard.

"David, please," Angela laced her fingers together in a plea, "She's our daughter. Our baby girl. She's _ours._ "

"What have you done, Angela!?" he shouted, jumping to his feet. She shook her head wildly, as tears began to track down her face.

"I can't," she whispered the plea, clutching at her stomach. She gasped, as though in pain. "They'll take our baby," she keened. Fast as a snake spring on its prey, his hands reached out and snatched Angela's arms.

"What have you done!" he screamed, shaking her a pair of times. She drew in a loud, raspy breath as she yanked her arms away from him.

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" she cried out, then grabbed at her middle again. "It had only been two months when I saw her on the beach that day. Two months since I lost Tim and… and… and…" She doubled over again, and sobbed, then sucked in a painful breath before continuing, "…the baby I was carrying. One… one… minute…I was seven months pregnant…" she paused to suck in gulping breaths of air "…getting ready to ma… ma… marry the fa… father of my child…" she knuckled away some tears "…then the next they were gone! I was in sur… surgery for hours…" she keened another wail, smacking away David's hands when he reached out "When I ca… ca… came to the told me the dam… damage was extensive…" She suddenly turned angry and her voice rose. "They didn't just take my spleen and part of my intestines! In order to save my _life_ they'd had to take the only thing I'd _ever_ wanted from me: The ability to be a mother!"

Angela stopped speaking, and stood panting in the middle of the room, her eyes on her husband, begging him for understanding. David locked his hands behind his head and stared at his wife, slack jawed. When he finally tried to speak, the words wouldn't form on his lips.

"Go on," Laura prodded, quietly. Angela turned to look at Laura, her eyes wide and panicked. Even as she shook her head in refusal, she spoke.

"Why didn't they just let me die? I'd lost everything I cared about – Tim, the baby, dreams of being a mother. I had nothing left to live for." She turned away from Laura and faced her husband again, her mood shifting to an eerie calm. "We used to joke about it, Tim and I. On the day everyone else was celebrating independence, we'd be celebrating having just given up most of our freedom for the next eighteen years." Her eyes moved to the sliding glass doors and the light beyond.

A chill raced up Remington's spine on seeing the hopelessness on the woman's face, in her eyes. He'd seen that look on the faces of a few girls in Brixton, after they'd been forced to sell themselves on the streets if they wished to eat, find a place to kip. Some girls turned hard, some turned to drugs, then there were those who'd given up on life, so they ended theirs.

"You planned to kill yourself," he speculated. Her eyes darted to his face then away, but she nodded slowly.

"On the night our baby was supposed to be born," she confirmed, numbly. "I'd go to the fireworks to celebrate the seven months we'd had together, and afterwards, I'd go to wherever the baby and Tim had gone." She lifted a trio of fingers to her mouth and her eyes widened. "Then I saw her. There, on the beach, all alone." She reached out a hand as though she could touch her, if only in her memories. "She looked so much like Tim, just as I'd imagined all those months what our daughter would look like. Why would anyone leave her on the beach alone? And why did she look so sad?"

"She wasn't alone," Laura corrected, quietly. "Her mother was right there, only a few feet away."

" _No one_ was looking at her, _for_ her. She was so beautiful… so sad. 'Mommy told me to go 'way,' _that's_ what she told me when I asked where her parents were. How could a mother tell her child to go away?"

"It was a difficult day," Laura interjected with a lift and drop of her hand. "Can you honestly say there hasn't been a time when Ly-… Jessica… was being difficult, so you sent her to her room? I know I have."

"It was the beach! Anything could have happened to her. She could have drowned. Someone could have taken her, hurt her! I saved her! And she saved me!" She looked to her husband, hands in a pleading gesture again. "Tell them David! Tell them how happy Jess has been." His legs wobbled, then wouldn't withstand his weight. He sat down, heavily, on the edge of the coffee table and stared at her, both of them mindless to the sirens that could be heard drawing closer outside. Remington stood then walked to the glass sliders. Eyes meeting Laura's, the slightest nod of his head confirmed reinforcements were arriving.

"Do you have any idea what this is going to do to Jess when we tell her?" he asked, shell-shocked.

"Tell her? We're not going to tell her!" she ranted, hysterically. When her husband dropped his face into his hands, refusing to look at her, she appealed to Laura.

"Just meet Jess. Ask her! She'll tell you how happy she is, that we're her parents! She'll tell you how well she's been cared for, how much we love her! She won't want to leave, she'll tell you that. Please! Just talk to her!"

"I don't doubt that you love her," Laura replied with unmasked sympathy, "But—" She paused and all in the room looked to the door when someone banged on it a trio of times.

"Steele!" Jarvis yelled through the wood impediment.

"Coming, coming," Remington called back, already crossing the living room to the door.

"Beyond our professional and legal duties," Laura continued, "She has a family; a family who was told twelve years ago she'd drowned while on a holiday outing. It wouldn't be fair to them to allow them to go on believing that when she's very much alive."

Remington swung open the door, then held out an arm inviting entrance.

"Jarvis," he greeted. Jimmy Jarvis, detective for the LAPD, pressed up on the toes of his feet and studied the room before him as a quartet of uniformed officers filed into the room behind him. Whatever it was Jarvis had been expecting, it wasn't a trio of people gathered in the living room: one woman cool and collected, another one crying and a man who looked like he'd lost everything.

"Bernice said there was a kidnapping in progress?"

"Mmm. Come in and have a seat. We've a great deal to fill you in on…"

* * *

Laura stood next to Remington at the back of the living room rubbing at her arms. The afternoon had been… difficult… to say the least, bearing witness to one family being destroyed while another was rebuilt. If either she or Remington had believed it had been painful bearing witness to Angela's heartbreaking account of how she'd become Jessica's mother and David's torment of learning the secret his wife had kept from him the entirety of their association, it had been a cakewalk compared to watching Jessica's world come crashing down around her when she returned home from school.

Now, the frightened teen sat huddled next to David, with her face buried in his neck while he tried to offer her what comfort he could.

Angela had been placed under arrest thirty minutes before and led out of the apartment in handcuffs. Jarvis and the Steele's concurred it would be best if Barbara Jefferson wasn't notified until there was no chance of the two women crossing paths. Still, when the knock came at the door, likely indicating Barb's arrival, no one was quite prepared. Jessica began to sob, David hugged his daughter to him with all his might, and Jarvis stood by, uncomfortably while Laura and Remington slipped out of the apartment to meet their client, and the husband she'd unexpectedly brought along, in the hallway.

"Jessica Sandberg is Lynnee," Laura announced, cutting to the chase. Barb has been held in a torturous limbo for twelve years and she saw no reason to prolong the woman's suffering for a second longer than as necessary. Barb spun on her heel and threw herself into her husband's arms, nearly knocking both of them over. Josh stared at the detectives, in shock, a couple of long seconds passing before he was able to lift suddenly leaden arms and wrap them around his wife.

"What? But—How?" Josh stumbled over the words.

"Angela Luther made a full confession to Detective Jarvis with the LAPD an hour ago," Laura elaborated. She quickly summarized what Angela had shared. "You have every right to be angry for what's happened, but, as hard as it will likely be, try to remember Angela and David were Lynnee's parents less than an hour ago. Now, her mother's under arrest for kidnapping and she's being taken from her father. She's terrified."

"I understand," Barb answered, fingering away the tears that continued to trek silently down her face. "Please, can we see her now?" At Laura's nod, Remington reached out and opened the door, then stood back waiting for the other three to precede him back into the room.

On the couch, Lynnee dared to peek at the people who walked into the room. Sitting up a little straighter, she stared, disbelievingly, shaking her head slowly.

"It's you," she said quietly, "The woman in the elevator."

"Yes," Barb confirmed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you—" Lynnee shot to her feet.

"You don't live in this building," she accused. "You were following me!"

"Yes, I was," Barb admitted, unconsciously holding a hand out toward the girl, "But if you'll allow me—"

"So because I wasn't paying attention, I led you right to us!" Lynnee indicted herself, her voice edged with increasing hysteria. "I lost my Mom, my Pops, my friends, my school… Everything!... I lost everything because you followed me home!"

"Lynnee, I know—"

"My name's Jessica!" the teen screamed, her face turning red with fury. "You'll never be my mother!" She looked at Josh. "You'll never be my father! I hate you!" She faced Barb again. "Both of you! And I'm not going anywhere with you! I'd rather go to jail like my mom!" She shot off the couch as she burst into wrenching sobs and ran from the room. David was on his feet a split second later. He paused at the short hallway as a door slammed beyond, and held up a hand.

"Please, I know I have no right to ask anything of you," he told the couple, "But, please, for Jessi-… for Lynnee… let me have just a few minutes with her alone. Please…" His voice cracked with emotion and his face crumpled. "Just… please…"

Then he disappeared down the hall.

Laura and Remington looked at one another, and without a word, walked around the coffee table then sat down next to one another on the couch. A long, difficult afternoon was destined to be still longer, it seemed…


	17. Chapter 13: The Pier

Chapter 13: The Pier

Laura put the Explorer in park, turned off the engine then reluctantly looked towards the entrance to the pier some sixty feet away. She was nearly ten minutes late for the agree upon six o'clock meeting with her father and wondered if subconsciously she hadn't intentionally been so in hopes that her father would give up and leave. Regardless if it was just circumstances or psyche in play, at the end of the day it hadn't matter, for Jack Holt was pacing near the entrance, consulting his watch then scanning first boardwalk then parking lot, presumably looking for her. Crossing her arms on the steering wheel, she rested her forehead against them.

It had already been a long, emotionally charged day, one that she couldn't have possibly predicted when she'd agreed to meet her father this evening. It was seldom that she questioned how much damage a – technically – successfully closed case had wrought on the lives of her clients, but this was certainly one of those times. One family destroyed, another reunited and the teenager at the center of it all left utterly devastated. As she'd driven across town, she couldn't help wonder if this would be the defining moment of Lynnee's childhood, much as her father abandoning his family had been hers. In her heart, she prayed that it wouldn't be, but in her head she knew that it would. How could it not? Everything Lynnee had ever believed had just been turned on end, and the very people she'd naturally turn to during time of such upheaval were no longer accessible to her.

It was a feeling she knew, all too well. And the man who'd turned her life upside down was currently waiting for her not even a stone's throw away.

With a sigh, she sat up, and reached for her purse. Yet, rather than getting out of the car, she removed the new cellular phone and dialed a number.

"Steele, here," Remington's voice came over the line. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headrest of her seat and sighed.

At the girl's dance school, Remington needn't even ask who it was, for he knew that sigh as well as he did the sound of Laura breathing when she slept.

"Holt, stay right here. I'm just going to step outside for a moment to speak with your mother," he instructed. Holt's head bobbed up from where he was playing with his cars in the corner of the waiting room.

"Can I talk to Mommy?"

"Not right now, mo mhac. But she said she'll check in on you when she gets home," he offered. It wasn't precisely a fabrication, as no matter how late the hour, both of them were compelled to tuck in the children and distribute missed kisses good night, even if it was only to the top of their sleeping offspring's heads.. "Be right back." Pushing open the glass lobby door, he stepped outside onto the sidewalk. "Laura? What is it? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she replied, but the way she drew out the words, the strain her voice said otherwise.

"Is your father running behind?" he wondered.

"No," she drew out the word again, "He's here. Tell me why I'm doing this again…" _Ah_. A bit of the jitters then.

"Because you've a right to the answers," he reminded quietly. The response was followed by another long sigh.

"Why do I feel like I'm about to open Pandora's Box?" she questioned, wearily.

"Even if that were the case, love, you're not that sixteen-year-old girl any longer. There's nothing within that can harm you," he assured.

"I'm not so sure about that," she worried, lifting a pair of fingers to her brow. "I loved him, Remington. I… idolized him. And he knew it."

"Mmmm," he acknowledged with a hum, "Which means he has all the more to answer for, don't you think?" he challenged. "Laura?" he said her name softly, after a prolonged silence.

"I'm here."

"Think of it this way," he suggested, trying for a bit of levity "It couldn't be any worse than spending afternoon shopping with Frances and your Mother, now could it?" She snorted a brief laugh.

"Well, if it is, it would make my decision a piece of cake," she replied, with a bit of spirit and a snap of her fingers. His voice, his irreverent quip, had been exactly what she'd needed. With a sharp nod of her head, she sat up and checked her hair in the rearview mirror, fingering back a strand of hair to her satisfaction. "I guess it's time to get on with it then," she said with determination. "I'll see you when I get home."

"Look forward to it." He smacked pair of kisses into the phone, then disconnected the call.

With a smile and a quiet laugh, Laura ended the call on her end and dropped the phone back in her purse, then stored her purse under the passenger seat before getting out of the SUV. Closing the door behind her, she took a deep breath and softly patted her stomach as she let it out, then squaring her shoulders walked at a brisk pace towards the man awaiting her.

"Laura!" Jack greeted, reaching out to hug her when she neared. With a minute shake of her head, she shirked away, and crossed her arms around herself protectively.

"Hello," she greeted in return. Jack dropped his arms, and shifted uncomfortably, before smiling at her.

"I'm so glad you've agreed to give me a chance. You have no idea how much—" Arms still crossed she lifted her hand, indicting he should stop.

"Please, don't," she requested. "Don't assume. I'm here for answers. That's all." His face fell, but he nodded his understanding.

"Alright," he agreed. "Would you like to get something to eat?" He tilted his head in the direction of the pier. "Or walk?"

"I'm not hungry, but if you are—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. We don't usually eat dinner until eight, eight-thirty." She looked at him as they stepped onto the pier, before facing forward again. He'd offered her a starting point without intending to.

"We?" she inquired, casually. His face lit with a smile.

"My wife, Brenda, and our son, John," he offered freely. That the answer had affected her at all was only demonstrated by the slightest twitch of her brow.

"Have you been married long?" He puffed up with what could only be interpreted as pride.

"Fifteen years, last August," he replied. "I think you'd like her, Laura. A real feminist. Strong. Feisty. Independent. Always on the go, focused on changing the world, making it a better place. She keeps me on my toes, that's for sure." _The antithesis of Mother_ , she mentally noted.

"She sounds… nice." He laughed aloud.

"She'd be the perfect woman," he boasted, then added with humor in his voice, "If it she didn't insist we eat that rabbit food of hers all the time. John and I have to sneak out a couple of times a month to enjoy a good steak or burger." She rubbed at her arms, unconsciously, and nodded her acknowledgment.

"Your son." Noticing her gesture, he shrugged out of his windbreaker.

"Here," he offered. She held up a hand for a second time on the evening.

"I'm fine. Thank you," she refused. "John?"

"He's just a great kid," Jack answered, pride infusing his voice as he put back on his jacket. "He turned seventeen in July. Top of his class, junior class president, named co-captain of the football team this year and led the baseball team to the conference championship last spring. He's a pitcher, Champ, just like you." Her stomach knotted at both the nickname and her father's attempts to establish common ground between his son and daughter.

"I don't play baseball any longer," she dismissed, then added, "And I stopped pitching when I joined the softball team in ninth grade. I was a shortstop, remember?"

"The best in the county, everyone said so," he commended, automatically reaching out an arm to encircle her shoulders, then remembering her previous reactions dropped it before he made contact. "Your kids? Three of them, right? Teaching them the fine points of throwing a knuckleball yet?" Her lips tightened. There was no way she was discussing the children with him, not yet.

"Frances's oldest is on a full baseball scholarship to college," she shared instead. "Speaking of which, Frances tells me you haven't tried to contact her yet. Why exactly is that?" He held up a hand and dropped it.

"I have no idea where she lives, how to even find her. Are her and that Donald kid still married?"

"Yes," she answered shortly. "They're still married and moved back to Los Angeles ten years ago." Anything further he wished to know about Frances, as far as she was concerned, her father could ask Frances himself. Pulling a slip of paper from her pocket, she held it out to him. "This is Frances's number. She knows that you showed up at the house and that we're meeting this evening." He took the paper from her, reluctantly.

"Does Frances want me to call?" Laura lifted and dropped her shoulders.

"That's really not for me to say," she told him, bluntly, then changed the subject back to him. "And after you left?"

"I moved, married. It was a mistake. We divorced after five years." She feigned surprise.

"Did you and she have any children?" His shoulders stiffened and he looked away, seeming to take an interest in a pair of men fishing.

"Together? No. She had two boys, Eric and Adam." She nodded her head slowly. She'd known as much, of course.

"Did you adopt them as well?"

"I was in the process when our marriage ended," he answered, "There seemed no point in finishing the process then." Her head tipped slightly to the side, her natural curiosity tickled.

"Do you see them often?"

"I thought it would be easier for all of us if we had a clean break." The parallel to her own life pricked her temper.

"Easier for you, you mean," she challenged, coolly.

"For everyone, not just me!" he protested. She snorted in disdain.

"Everyone," she repeated, with a shake of her head. "Was it easier for Mother?"

"We'd been miserable for years! Years!" he defended. "But every time I brought up divorce, she'd refuse to consider it!"

"Because being a housewife was all she knew how to be!" Laura argued. "It's how she was raised. It was what was expected of her: To marry and raise a family. Nothing more! My God!" She pressed her fingers to her forehead. "I spent my entire childhood listening to 'Your father will be home soon. Make sure all your things are picked up and put away. You know how he feel about messes,' or 'Girls, you must be quiet. Your father works hard and he needs his rest.' Every decision made by her completely revolved around you! Do you have any idea what it was like after you left? She didn't know who she was any longer. She had no idea how to pay bills, how to schedule repairmen, what maintenance was needed on the house year in and year out. Her daily routines were all gone! There were no suits to take to and pick up from the dry cleaners, no dinners that needed to be on the table when you got home. So she poured _all_ of herself into planning Frances's wedding, ignoring the things she didn't know how to do and completely oblivious to everything else!"

"I couldn't do it any longer, Laura," he replied, wearily. "I was forty-three years old and had spent nearly half my life in a miserable marriage. There just finally came a day when I realized, I had the _right_ to be happy. Frances was planning her wedding—"

"And I suppose it didn't occur to you that she'd have liked to have her _father_ there to walk her down the aisle?" she asked.

"Frances and I had never been close," he rationalized. Her lips tightened and her chin tipped upwards a notch.

"And me? Was I so easy to dismiss as well?" He took umbrage at her choice of words.

"Dismiss? I didn't dismiss anyone, most of all you. I knew you'd be fine! You'd always been so strong, so—" To her horror, a tingling sensation behind her eyes warned of oncoming tears. She blinked rapidly and willed them back, allowing the anger she'd harbored for years to lead the way.

"But I wasn't alright, was I?" she retorted, fingering away the tear that had escaped before she found her bearings. "I found the letters you wrote Grandmother. You _knew_ I wasn't 'fine.' You _knew_ I was having a… a… breakdown, and it didn't matter to you! Your new family… your new _sons_ … _That's_ what mattered!" She winced, having shouted the last, and looked around to find several pairs of eyes on them. Lowering her voice, she continued, "So please, spare me the talk of how it was best for 'everyone.' You didn't give a damn about anyone but yourself! Which begs the question: Why are you here? Why now?"

"Laura—" his voice held a plea for understanding in it.

"Just answer the question," she demanded. "Why now? Why after twenty-two years?" Their slow stroll had taken them to the end of the pier and turned to her.

"Do you think we could get a cup of coffee and have a seat before we continue this?" he requested, then tried to lighten the mood, commenting, "I'm not as young as I was in the days that we used to walk this pier together." A part of her wanted to refuse, to demand they finish the conversation so she could leave, but the other part of her, both weary and compassionate, reluctantly agreed.

"Sure." She tugged her jacket tighter around herself, again, as they reversed course.

"I have fond memories of the many afternoons and evenings we spent on this pier. Do you remember?" She may have made a concession, but it didn't mean he was off the hook in her eyes.

"I wouldn't necessarily say they're _fond_ memories," she refuted. "More bittersweet." If their conversation about the past was on hold, as far as she was concerned, so was reminiscing about it. "Are you still working?"

"For right now, but I'm thinking about retiring before John's senior year so we can spend some quality time together before he leave for college." Another minefield, she acknowledged, as she tamped down the urge to make a biting remark about the difference between her senior year and the one the son her father had always wanted would know.

"I think the Dodgers would have taken the division this year if not for the strike? What do you think?..."


	18. Chapter 14: Veracity

Chapter 14: Veracity

Sophie and Livvie skidded to a halt next to the island in the kitchen.

"What are we cooking tonight, Da?" Livvie inquired as she scrambled up onto 'her chair.' Remington grinned at his daughters' attempt to put one past him. On nights when the girls had dance and gymnastics, the household rule was firm: The girls were to sit down with their homework, while Remington prepared the meal, quite on his own.

"An admirable attempt, Livvie Bee," he praised – an act that would likely earn him a palm to the back of his head or ferocious scowl from Laura were she here, "But it's off to the dining room table for the pair of you. You've homework to see to."

"Awwwww," the girls bemoaned in unison. Livvie tried her best sad face.

"But we almost never get to cook with Granddad." Standing behind Remington rummaging through the refrigerator, Thomas laughed warmly at the claim. Setting the chicken and broccoli on the island, he looked down at his granddaughter with amusement.

"I seem to recall spending several evenings cooking with the Little Ladies Steele just this past week," Thomas reminded.

"But before that is was a long time!" Sophie chipped in.

"A really, _really_ , long time," Livvie elaborated.

"Mmm, I suppose it's a good thing Granddad is here for the next two months then, eh? To the dining room, please, before you give your mother reason to be cross with me." The directive was met with another chorus of 'awww's' but the girls complied.

"They are a handful," Thomas laughed when he and Remington were alone.

"Mmmm, that they are," Remington agreed, then added ruefully as he turned to gather more ingredients, "And it has become abundantly clear which parent it is they believe they can sway." A hand came down firmly on Remington's shoulder and Thomas gave it a fond squeeze.

"You're just arriving at this realization, son? Why Catherine and I have known since your trip to London two years past when the girls managed to convince you it was perfectly acceptable for them to play in the gardens whilst wearing their Sunday best." Remington turned and grinned widely at his father. The family had been preparing to go out for dinner and Laura and Catherine had both been running behind. He'd had his hands full chasing after fifteen-month-old Holt, who was determined to play with anything he'd been told 'No' to previously. Sending the girls outside to run off a bit of their energy had seemed harmless enough… until, when everyone was at last prepared to depart, the girls had appeared soaked through-and-through and covered from head-to-toe in mud.

"The fountain and mud pies, wasn't it?" Remington chuckled, then noted ruefully, "Which is what inspired Laura to 'lay down the law,' so to speak." That evening she'd made it clear to both girls that their end runs around answers they didn't care for had come to an end: A 'No' from one parent meant a 'No' from both unless Laura and Remington conferred with one another and changed that stance _together._

"A rule they still seem intent upon bending," Thomas mused, as Remington sat an armful of ingredients upon the counter then turned to collect the ginger and garlic that would be required.

"Which I'm certain Laura would attribute to them being my daughters, although I'd be inclined to say they inherited their mother's hard-headedness." He paused as a thought crossed his mind. "In case I haven't said it already… thank you. I appreciate you and Catherine coming over to lend a hand."

"It's our pleasure," Thomas dismissed. "Catherine had already begun lamenting how little we've seen the children since you and Laura returned from Vail and it's only been a trio of days since your return. I think if she had her druthers, we'd simply move in here during our visits, so the children were at her fingertips at all times." The comment left his son laughing again.

"Be careful, Father. Comments such as that might have me asking you to stay with the children over the Thanksgiving weekend, so I can whisk Laura off to Las Vegas for a couple nights of frivolity." Unseen, he pursed his lips, taken with the thought. Laura on an adrenaline high after gambling was something to be thoroughly enjoyed.

"Consider it done," Thomas declared. "Catherine will be beside herself with joy."

"Oh, and what is it I'll be joyous about, dear?" the woman of topic asked, as she stepped into the kitchen holding the hand of a pajama-clad, damp haired Holt. "I have your paints all laid out on the dining table, darling, so run along and play."

"Yes, Grans," Holt agreed, then ran from the room.

"Remington suggested he might like to take Laura to Las Vegas over Thanksgiving weekend, so I've volunteered us to stay with the children," Thomas filled her in.

"How delightful! We did so enjoy our time together this weekend past," she answered, tickled as he'd predicted she'd be. "I shall have to buy the girls a pair of new Princess dresses and we'll take them to Disneyland, providing Fred's available, of course."

"You spoil them," Remington good-naturedly accused.

"Why that's what grandparents are for, dear boy," Catherine replied, stepping to him and bussing him on the cheek, "And we do so enjoy it."

"Da," Sophie poked her head into the kitchen. "I need someone to tell me my words." Catherine jumped to do her bidding, crossing the kitchen and taking her by the hand.

"Come, darling, we'll leave the men to their kitchen." Thomas's smile followed his wife from the room, then turned to find his son consulting his watch. "That's the third time since we arrived that I've found you staring at your watch," he observed. Remington looked up from his watch and flashed a quick smile.

"Just making certain we can still get the children to bed on time," he fibbed. "You know how Laura is…"

* * *

Twenty-minutes of excruciating small talk later, Laura and Jack, with coffee cups in hand, returned to the pier and sat down on one of the benches offered. Crossing her legs, Laura took a sip of the still hot liquid, then turned to regard her father.

"So why now?" she repeated her earlier question. He looked down at the coffee cup clutched between his two hands, searched for the words. She waited him out, taking small sips of her coffee, the only indication of her impatience found in the swing of her leg.

"It's not as though I just woke up one morning and said 'I'm going to go see Laura today,'" he began. "I'd thought about you often over the years, wondering what you were doing. Mom's letters helped the first few years. She was pretty angry with me and wouldn't go into too many details about what you and Frances were up to, actually told me more than once if I wanted to know I could just see for myself. Still, there were little comments here and there: You'd graduated from high school; Frances had married; you'd decided to attend Stanford on a math scholarship; Frances and her new husband had moved East after his graduation from dental school. But after Mom passed…" he cleared his throat when the words caught there a "…after Mom passed, there was nothing. Then—"

"You didn't even come to Grandmother's funeral," she interrupted with an accusatory tone. His head snapped in her direction and he glowered at her.

"You think I didn't want to?" he snapped. "She was _my mother_ and I was her only child." Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out slowly then dropped his head to stare at the cup in his hands. "I _couldn't_ go. You'd be there, likely Frances and Abby. I'd just lost my mother and didn't have it in me to deal with any confrontations or scenes. Mom had notified me a couple years before that I'd been removed from her will for what I'd done, that everything would go to you and your sister. It wasn't as if I'd be able to see Mom if I went."

"I see," she replied, frigidly. "Go on."

"Ten years ago or so, I went to LA for a seminar on the new tax changes. I was having breakfast while skimming the paper and…" he lifted a hand and dropped it "…there was an article about your husband being named one of LA's most eligible bachelors. There was… there was a picture of him accompanying the article and there you were, standing in the background. You weren't named, but I knew it was you. You'd barely changed in all those years. Your hair was a lot longer than the last time I had seen you and straight, but if your hair had been pulled back in a ponytail and that suit was shorts and a t-shirt instead, you looked exactly as you had at sixteen-years—"

"Fifteen," she cut in again, bitterly. "You left the day after my sixteenth birthday party." He considered her for a long second, then acknowledged the rebuke with another nod of his head.

"At fifteen," he corrected. "I was surprised, not only because your picture was in the paper or that you had changed so little, but that you'd attend something like that at all. It went against everything I knew about you." She shrugged her shoulders.

"We did a great deal of publicity the first few years," she offered, offhandedly. "The more visible Remington was, the better it was for business. That little stunt alone brought in a good deal of business." He accepted her explanation and continued on.

"After that, each time I came to LA I made it a point to get the paper. I saw you a few more times." He looked at her and offered her a half smile. "When Mom said you'd taken a math scholarship at my alma mater, I thought you'd followed in your old man's footsteps and had become an accountant."

"No," she drew out the word, with an adamant shake of her head. "I wanted to go to college and needed a scholarship if I didn't want to rely on Mother or Grandmother. I took the best scholarship offered to me. It was nothing more than coincidence that it came from Stanford and was in Math. I never had any intention of becoming an accountant."

"Well, I was shocked, when a couple years later when the paper published a big story about you and your husband stopping the assassination of some Duke or something—"

"An Earl. He was an Earl," she corrected, "And Remington wasn't my husband at the time." He nodded and held up a hand.

"I just assumed," he apologized. "That's when I found out you'd become a detective." She did the fast math in her head.

"That was nine years ago," she pointed out. "If you knew where I was and where I worked, why wait nine years?"

"Courage, I guess," he admitted. "Then, about the time John was ten he began asking for a brother or sister. I was fifty-six-years-old, Bren was closing in on fifty. Even if were possible, we weren't really interested in starting again. After a while John stopped talking about a little sister or brother but began asking questions about family. He knows Bren's parents, his aunt and uncles, his cousins, but it still didn't give what he really wanted, which was a sibling on his own. You have no idea what it was like knowing I could give that to him if I had the guts to try to fix things."

"I imagine it was very difficult for you," she commented, drily. Oblivious to her sarcasm, he nodded his head.

"It was. Still, I kept just putting it off," he sighed. "But when the Northridge earthquake happened, I realized we live on borrowed time. So, I worked up the courage, and here I am."

"And now that you have? What is it, exactly, that you're hoping for?" she inquired.

"Exactly what I told your husband," he answered quickly. "I'd like for us to fix things between us. I want my daughter back." He reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. She leaned away from his touch. More determined this time, than the times before, he reached for her empty hand, holding it in his as she fought against the urge to yank it away. "I want us to have a chance to be a family again. I'm hoping for a chance to know my son-in-law, my grandchildren. I want you to get to know Bren and John. You'll love her, everyone does, and your brother is—" She yanked her hand from his and abruptly stood up, putting space between them.

"You make it all sound so easy," she charged. "Forgetting the past, living in the present. That's Remington's gift, not mine." She walked to the opposite side of the pier and stared at the white-tipped waves as they crested to crash on the shore.

"Laura…"

"Don't," she requested, her voice carefully modulated. She walked back to stand next to the bench. "I'm not saying I won't consider it…" She frowned, then qualified "Or that I'll agree. But this is not just about me. This is about Frances…" she reached up to finger her throat, clearly troubled "…And Mother." She gave her head a small shake, as though ridding her thoughts of Abigail. "Then there are the children. Remington and I don't make major decisions about our family on our own. We need to talk. I need to know how he feels about everything. We've designed our lives to make sure our children have the love and security that we didn't know all…" She held out a hand in his direction "…Or part of our childhood and we take a good deal of pride in knowing we've done that so far." She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "But I need you to answer a question, honestly."

"I'll do my best," he promised. Her hand returned to her throat and she paced for several long seconds, before turning to look at him again. She needed to see his face when she asked and he answered her question.

"You said you knew I'd be fine when you left. When you knew that wasn't the case, why didn't you find a way to contact me?" she demanded to know, finding it increasingly difficult to speak without giving in to the emotions battering her. "And I don't want to hear about how 'the boys' needed you. I _want the truth!_ " Her voice had risen on the last words, and she didn't really give a damn whose attention she might have drawn. She watched the play of emotions on his face, the light of truth that shone in his eyes before he spoke.

"I didn't want you to give you false hope that I'd be coming back," he admitted. She nodded her head, once and sharply.

"Thank you for that." She made a display of looking at her watch. "If I want to say goodnight to the children, I need to go." Walking to the nearest trashcan, she tossed in her cup.

"I was hoping we'd have dinner together," Jack answered, standing and walking towards her.

"I can't," she refused, firmly.

"We can grab a hot dog," he offered, hoping one of her favorite, old treats would sway her.

"I'll call you once I… I'll call you."

Before her father could say anything else, she squared her shoulders and walked towards the parking lot with brisk, long legged strides.

Still, she'd barely shut the door, before the tears she'd been battling back began to flow.


	19. Chapter 15: Coming Home

Chapter 15: Coming Home

"Catherine, my dear, would you mind terribly if I had a bit of time alone with Remington?" Thomas asked his wife in an undertone, as he accompanied down her stairs after saying their goodnights to the grandchildren. Catherine patted his arms, reassuringly.

"I called Fred whilst the children were brushing their teeth. I imagine he'll be arriving shortly." Thomas nodded and with a fond look in his eyes, touched his lips to his wife's cheek.

Clearly, Remington had drawn Catherine's concern as well. Throughout the meal, he'd joked with the children, had asked about their day as he always did and at bedtime he'd read their story with a flair very few were capable of mustering. He'd done an admirable job of making the children believe all was the same as it always was, but they'd missed the subtle hints that he under strain. His shoulders had grown noticeably stiffer, the tension around his eyes became more noticeable… and he'd checked his watch no less than a dozen times in the past two hours. While he might open up to Thomas with a patience, he was a man who remained fairly uncomfortable speaking of his troubles, his feelings, and, while he was terribly fond of Catherine, he remained a man who would truly open up except with a select few – his father amongst them.

As if on cue, the honk of a horn sounded outside, drawing Remington from Holt's room and down the hall, his eyes on his watch and a question on his face.

"It's just Fred come to collect me," Catherine called up the stairway. "I've a bit of a headache coming on and I think a nice, hot bath may be just what I need to ward it off." That he so readily accepted the transparent excuse spoke volumes. Descending the stairs, he bussed his stepmother on the cheek.

"Feel better, elsewise the children will be cranky should Grans not be at dinner tomorrow evening." Catherine smiled up at him and lay a hand on his cheek.

"Such a dear man to worry after me." She bussed him on the cheek as he shifted, mutually embarrassed and flattered by the praise. "I'll see you tomorrow evening. Thomas, dear, will you walk me out?"

"Of course." He offered her his crooked elbow then escorted her towards the front of the house.

When he returned, Remington was nowhere to be seen, although the slight wave of the drapes near the open French doors provided an adequate clue to follow. Retrieving a pair of snifters from the glassware rack in the kitchen, at the bar in the dining room he splashed a couple fingers of brandy into each glass then walked outside where he found his son at the terrace wall, staring out over the water. Wordlessly, he placed one of the glasses into Remington's hand, then took a seat on a nearby chair to wait the younger man out.

"It's a beautiful night for October, eh?" Remington finally offered.

"Mmmm, especially in comparison to England at this time of the year," Thomas agreed. Remington laughed softly.

"Or Ireland." His laugh ended abruptly and he took a draw of his brandy. "I told you Laura was meeting her father this evening."

"You did," Thomas confirmed, watching as his son swirled the amber liquid in his glass then took a look drink. Remington turned and faced his father, drawing his free hand through his hair.

"Laura may well freeze me out a month for this," he sighed. "The truth is, Laura and her father aren't merely estranged. The man simply walked out the door the day after Laura's sixteenth birthday and hasn't contacted either of his daughters in the years since." Thomas sat up a bit straighter in his seat, and rubbed a hand over his chin.

"My God," he breathed. "I'd no idea." Setting the snifter on the terrace wall, Remington chose to pace instead.

"Mmmmm," he confirmed. "It was especially hard on Laura. She and her Mother, much as is the case now, had a… difficult… relationship, where as she and her father were particularly close. When he left she…" He paused to rub at his face and draw in a long breath"…collapsed under the weight of her loss," he said the words in a whoosh of an exhale, feeling all the while that he was betraying Laura's confidence. He turned contemplative.

"You're afraid for her," Thomas surmised. Remington nodded his head, once sharply, at his father.

"And there's not a damned thing I can do to keep her safe." He stopped and, leaning his backside against the wall, shoved his hands in his pockets, looking away, down the beach. "Laura called me from the parking lot at the Pier where she was to meet her father. It takes a lot to throw Laura off her game, but this has her in a tailspin. I can't help but worry." He glanced at his watch again. "And that this meeting was to take place nearly three hours ago and we've yet to see her?" It was the first opportunity Thomas saw to try to offer some comfort.

"It could be just the opposite, son," Thomas pointed out. "Perhaps it went well enough that they decided to have a spot of dinner together." Remington considered the idea for a moment then shook off the idea.

"No, that's not it. She would have called to let me know, if that were the case. "She's out there somewhere, tending to her wounds, and there's not a bloody thing I can do," he repeated, turning to look out over the water again, as though it might hold the answer to where Laura was.

* * *

Laura stepped through the front door of the Redondo Beach house well after eleven.

She'd driven straight home after leaving the beach, with every intention of pretending all was right in her world while she joined the children for the bedtime routines. It was one of her favorite parts of the day: The girls tucked into the beds of whichever room they'd chosen to sleep in that night and Holt curled up next to her with his head in her lap; her hand stroking his silken hair as Remington performed that night's story. It was in moments like those that she knew, against the odds, she and Remington were doing this parenthood thing right. Three children. Three intelligent, convivial, well-mannered – well, most of the time – happy, secure children who had never for a moment questioned their place in this world, said they were getting something right, after all.

There were days she wished she could catch those moments in a bottle, so they could be relived when the children were grown.

Stepping into Olivia's room where the girls had opted to sleep on the evening, she found her youngest daughter sprawled out on her stomach, sheet and blanket kicked into a tangled clump at the end of the bed. The ever-vigilant Prince Charming peeked open an eye at the sound of something moving about the room. Standing, he stretched, eyed Laura again, then with a bored yawn – no threat there – turned around a pair of time before curling back up into a ball at the foot of Sophie's bed and returning to his slumber, while Laura quietly sorted out Olivia's bedding, pulling first sheet, then blanket up, and tucking Olivia back in. With a fond stroke of her daughter's head, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Sophie, by far the less restless sleeper, lay curled on her side, a hand tucked beneath a cheek. Smoothing back Sophie's long, strawberry-blonde hair, Laura bestowed a kiss on the cheek of her oldest child then tucked the blankets – a needless exercise – around her. With a quick scratch behind Charming's ears, Laura left the room, leaving the door open a crack behind her.

She'd had every intention of coming home, but when she'd pulled the Explorer up to their gated drive, she'd spied the car Thomas and Catherine used during their stay in Los Angeles parked in the drive next to the house. It was one thing to put on a good face for her children, quite another for a pair of adults. So, she'd backed the SUV back out onto the road and had it in the direction of Century Towers and the offices of Remington Steele Investigations. She'd never stepped out of the car. The Jefferson file would be waiting on her desk, ready to close, and she simply hadn't had it in her, with her emotions already hanging precariously on edge, to revisit that afternoon's events. So, she'd returned the SUV to the road, driving aimlessly, or so she had thought until she found herself pulling up to the curb of a house in West Adams.

The home of her childhood, where memories both good and bad lingered. The sprawling, early twentieth-century Craftsman with stained cedar siding, wood encased windows, and massive wood front door abutted by stain glass windows on either side had been meticulously maintained in the years since last she'd visited. In her mind she could easily picture the interior of the home, with its built-in shelves, benches and china cabinet, its boxed ceilings, and the five, spacious bedrooms that had housed the family of four. It had been the home of her mother's dreams, a dream in which each of those bedrooms would shelter the children she and Jack would have – those four children that would never be: Nature had seen to it Abigail and Jack would only have two children, while time would see the occupants of that house being reduced to three.

It was on this street that her father had taught her to ride a bike – the cherished Schwinn Skipper coaster bike Jack had bought her, despite Abigail's protests. It was on that front lawn that Jack had spent countless twilight evenings teaching her to throw a knuckleball, a slider. It was on these streets that she'd played kickball and baseball with Mikey, Christopher, Stevie, Frankie, Anthony, Mark, Chuck and Kenny. There on that sidewalk, on one of the rare occasions she'd deigned to lower herself to playing with _girls_ , she, Vicky, Margaret and Kelly had played hopscotch. It was on that lawn, across the street and two houses down, that she'd been caught playing football with the boys by Abigail when she was nine. She'd fallen out of that tree when she was ten, had spent long summer afternoons by the pool behind their house, and, in the rebellious months after her father had left, had climbed out of that window then jumped off that roof over the porch to the ground below.

It was the home of her childhood, but also the house where Jack Holt had walked out the front door the day after her sixteenth birthday party, leaving her to fend for herself.

She wasn't sure she sat there, parked in front of that house in West Adams, before she'd placed the SUV and it had taken her to the next destination it had in mind. It had to be the SUV making the decision – Right? – for she'd never made a conscious decision to travel to her childhood home or where she'd gone next.

Quietly opening the door to Holt's room, she slipped inside. Exhibiting yet another similarity with his father, Holt instinctively sensed the presence of someone in the room, as he did each night during these brief visits. A pair of bleary blue eyes popped open, then a smile lifted his lips.

"Mommy." A single word and a pair of small arms lifted towards her that brought joy to her heart. Sitting down on the side of his bed, she leaned forward and hugged him, then sitting back fingered his hair off his forehead

"Hi, little man," she greeted in a whisper. Fondly, she tweaked his nose. "You should be asleep."

"Grans singed to us," he shared, paying no heed to her soft admonishment, as it was a familiar exchange.

"Turn over, and close your eyes," she instructed. Once he was settled, she stroked her fingers rhythmically through his hair. "That was very nice of Grans."

"Uh-huh," he agreed.

"What story did Da read tonight?" she asked, softly.

"Fer'nand," he yawned.

"A very good story. Now, what I want you to do in think back really hard and remember Da telling the story."

"Okay," he yawned again. "Mommy? Will you be here when I waked up?"

"I will," she promised. With a nod of his head, accepting her at her word, he snuggled deeper into his pillow. Less than a minute later, she bent down, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and quietly crept from the room.

Closing the door until it was open only a crack, she slipped off her suit jacket and slung it over her arm as she began the walk to the opposite end of the expansive hallway.

She'd traveled to the site where her house - the house her grandmother had left her – once stood, before Eldon Veckmer had arranged the bomb that had leveled it to the ground. She'd sold the land shortly afterwards, seeing no point in rebuilding as she couldn't recreate the most important attribute the home had offered: The memories of times spent with her Grandmother within the four walls that were no longer.

She hadn't lingered at the site, and in the end she'd returned to the Pier. The temperature had dropped several degrees in the two-and-a-half hours she'd been gone, the breeze was a bit more brisk, the waves crashing with increased tempo and strength against the shore. She was oblivious to it all as she walked the length of the pier, a journey through the past. There, in that spot by a light post, was the place her father had taught her to bait a hook when she was seven... the very same place when, a week later, she caught her first fish. She crossed to the other side to look down at the waves. Fifty feet down the shoreline was the place her father had spent a month of Saturday's teaching her how to balance on a surfboard, how to ride the more tepid waves… how to brush herself off after a sound dunking left her coughing up water and gasping. And at the end of this pier? From the time she was five years old and until she was fifteen, they'd stood her at the end of the pier more times than she could possibly recall. It was here where he'd shared his dreams of one day visiting the Great Barrier Reef, of exploring the wildlife that roamed the Alaskan coastline. It was here that she'd alternately bemoaned and raged over her relationship with her mother. And it was here that he'd constantly reminded her, with absolute conviction, that she could be anything she wished to be, as long as she believed in herself.

But, as she'd said to her father earlier that evening, those memories had all become bittersweet, as, unbeknownst to him, in the early years after he'd left the Pier had become a reminder of all that had been taken from her. Before he'd left, despite the increasing number of nights he wouldn't come home until long after she'd gone to bed, she hadn't felt so… alone… in a house where she was either afterthought or the target of criticism by her mother and thought of as, more or less, a nuisance by an older sister with whom she shared no interests. Before he left, she'd felt like she had someone on her side and that her thoughts, her feelings, had truly mattered. Before he'd left she'd lived in ignorant bliss about matters such as mortgage, electric, phone, plumbers, and washing machine repairmen. Before he'd left there had been laughter, comfort, a partner-in-crime.

If she looked to his deeds, as Remington would, did sixteen years of good deeds make up for the deed of disappearing for twenty-two? Did finally returning mean a debt owed?

She didn't know. She was… confused… hurt… angry…

Lost.

But she knew exactly where she could find herself and lose herself at the same time. Walking at a clip so brisk it had approached a jog, she;d made it down the pier and to the parking lot in record time, then had started the Explorer and headed for home.

When she stepped into the doorway of the master suite, she saw Remington sitting on the couch across the room, nibbling at a thumbnail. He stood, abruptly when his blue eyes found her, and made a movement that suggested his first instinct had been to go to her, only for something to change his mind. In a split second she assessed him, the strain around his eyes, the way he shifted on his feet, the manner in which he dragged a set of fingers through his hair all attesting to his uncertainty.

 _Can you blame him?_ a little voice in her head had asked. He was, after all, the man who'd had to battle his way past the ghosts of her father and Wilson… who still had to, on occasion, give her some assurance that he wouldn't eventually do the same as they.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she tossed her jacket on the end of the bed as she passed it, never pausing in her stride until she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. In a whoosh of breath she was sure he hadn't mean for her to hear, he wrapped one arm around her waist and buried one hand in her hair.

"I was getting worried." Turning her head into his neck, she breathed deeply of his scent, then touched her lips to his skin. Pulling back, she looked up at him with soft brown eyes.

"Thank you," she told him, simply, knowing he'd be unable to resist seeking the reason for her gratitude.

"For what?" he wondered on cue. She cupped his neck in one of her hands.

"For being here today," she lowered her eyes as his face lit up, then lifted them to look at him again as her hand slid upwards into his hair. "And for being here tomorrow."

As the implications of her statement dawned on him, she pressed up on her tiptoes and tugged his head downwards, her lips joining with his. And while she kissed him, a hand teased his ears and neck, then slipped inside his robe to caress his chest, making her intentions known.

He didn't hesitate.

Bending his knees, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.

She'd found herself by coming home, and now she lost herself in him, his words, his touch….


	20. Chapter 16: Selfish

_**A/N: Ahhhh, at last we return to Canon.**_

* * *

Chapter 16: Selfish

"How did you do it?"

The fire burned in the hearth across the room, the dancing flames infusing the room with low, soft light. The room was silent – except for the occasional crackle of an ember and the soft, heavy breaths coming from the man who was still sprawled partly over the woman beneath him, his head resting upon the taunt flesh of her tummy while she absently skimmed her fingers through his damp hair. It had been a long time since they'd made love like that, with such raw need for connection that they drank greedily of one another's body, consuming each other's essence with each kiss and caress… and every stroke of his body in hers. It was the type of teeth-rattling, heart-pounding, mind-blowing love making whose memory would seep into a man's thoughts for days to come, often at the most inopportune of times; the type of love making that reminded a man-

Remington's eyes snapped open when his passion soaked mind registered Laura's question, and raising his head he gave her confused look, which quickly changed to a grin.

"Ah, Laura, you inspire me, much as the Mona Lisa inspired Van Gogh, the heavens Michelangelo, a beautiful landscape Monet, a—" Laura rolled her eyes and put an end to his poeticizing.

"Not _that_ ," she cut him off, then ruffed his hair when his face fell and smiled to soften the admonition, "Although it was _exceptional_." That grin reappeared as he lay his head back down on her stomach, earning him another, unseen eye roll. "Remington, how did you do it? How did you walk away from people, places, never looking back, never regretting what you left behind?" He lifted his head again, his blue eyes searching her face, then he shifted upwards touching a quick kiss to her lips before stretching out on his side, facing her. As she settled onto her side as well, he reached for one of her hands, and drawing it up to his lips whispered a kiss over the back of her fingers.

"I'm afraid you're not going to find the answers you're looking for there, love," he answered, quietly, then laid their still joined hands down between them and swept her hair back over her shoulder with the other. "I didn't allow myself to become attached to any person or place. My only concern was the next job or adventure to be had." Words from long ago sparked in the recesses of her mind.

* * *

" _ **Before, I didn't know where I'd be next day or with whom. Didn't really matter, though. I always liked it like that."**_

* * *

"You always liked it like that," she whispered.

"Mmm," he confirmed, reaching down and tugging the sheet up over them. The night air had cooled significantly since Laura had arrived home and the breeze coming through the open French doors brought a bit of a nip to the room, although not enough to convince him to get up and close the doors. He was content where he was. Well, almost. He wriggled a bit closer, until their knees made contact. With a quiet smile she slipped a leg between his and closed the distance further. Over the last eight years, they'd spent many a late night talking thus. His brow suddenly furrowed and he pushed up on an elbow to peer at the bedroom door. She laid her hand on his arm.

"I locked it," she assured him, then lifted her brows at him and widened her eyes. "I'm an old hand at this." A firm rule in the Steele household was a closed door meant you must knock before entering, but children were children and in the midst of a tummy ache or bad dreams, they were occasionally remiss in recalling the rule until after they'd already entered the room. He lay back down, resisting the urge to pry a bit of information from her about her visit with her father that evening. Instead, he stroked his free hand lightly up and down her arm while searching for something wholly innocuous to speak of, while she fastened her eyes on his chest, toying with the thick matte of hair there.

"Father and Catherine have volunteered to stay with the children for a weekend so that you and I might steal away to Vegas," he announced. "I was thinking, perhaps, Thanksgiving weekend?" Laura's lashes fluttered upwards, and she stared at him, a pensive line drawn between her brows as she regarded him. With a pair of blinks, as though just recalling where she was, and a minute shake of her head, she disregarded the question.

"I asked him why he didn't make an attempt to contact me when he found out I was in trouble," she shared, staring somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. "He said he didn't want to give me 'false hope' that he was coming back." He pressed his lips to her forehead and allowed them to linger there.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her skin. Only when she nodded her head and laid her palm against his cheek did his lips withdraw.

"I just don't get it. The only way _I'd_ …" she pressed her hand against her chest in emphasis "…leave you and the children were if someone dragged me away, because I certainly wouldn't go willingly. To not know if the four of you were safe, well cared for; to not be here for Sophie when she's frightened, to keep Livvie from tap dancing around you or to sit with Holt until he's fallen to sleep? To not be here to make sure you…" she jabbed a finger at his chest, "..don't get into too much trouble? I'd make a deal with the devil to get home to all of you. How could he walk away not once, but twice and never look back?"

"James Ryan," he mulled aloud.

"What about him?" she wondered, immediately making the connection to the nearly decade old case that might have cost her life.

"He was a devoted family man for thirty some years, then suddenly begins secreting away the marital assets by way of investing in the fictitious Courtney Doll Company. He didn't care if he'd leave his wife without a single dime after he left, so long as he had what he needed to carry on with the life to which he was accustomed," he reminded.

"So?"

"We see it all the time in our work: Men leaving their wives and children behind, and hiring lawyers like Malcolm Marcal to assure their families are left with nothing but scraps," he pointed out, "Or women abandoning their children in favor of a lover and freedom. Nearly everything we do is for selfish reasons, it's human nature," he lifted his brows at her, "Even yours." The judgment brought an immediate frown.

"Mine?!" she protested, pressing her hand to her chest. "I'm not selfish!"

"Sure, you are," he blithely countered.

"How do you figure that?" she challenged.

"Well," he drew out the word, "For example…When first we met, your every decision, your every waking hour, was predicated by what was best for the Agency."

"That's called _sacrifice_ , Mr. Steele," she refuted.

"Because you wanted the Agency to be successful," he ventured.

"Of course I did!" she agreed, passionately.

"Yet, you eventually found time for me, for us," he noted.

"If you'll recall, you didn't exactly leave me much choice," she groused, for forms sake. He laughed quietly at the dig, while twirling the lock of hair he'd been fiddling with around his finger, absently.

"Mmmm," he hummed, "Perhaps at first," he granted, "But it wasn't all that long before you wanted time with me as well." Her eyes narrowed.

"Remington Steele, if this whole conversation is nothing more than you looking to have your _considerable_ ego stroked, I'll—" He laughed again, louder this time, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Even after all the years that have passed, you still have difficulty admitting you wanted to be with me as much as I did you," he chided. "Try to remember that you've confessed as much on more than one occasion now."

"Ah," she lifted her brows in answer to him, her brown eyes glimmering with humor, "But to do so now would stroke the aforementioned ego." Slipping his hand into her hair, he delivered a firm kiss to her lips. There was no one quite like Laura Holt Steele.

"Now, a dozen years later more or less, you leave the office an hour early twice a week and regularly entrust the Agency into Mildred's capable hands while we travel," he continued.

"All of which," she drawled, "I do because it makes the people I care about happy."

"And that's important to you." She looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

" _Of course_ it is."

"Do you not see the common theme?"

"That I care?" she postulated. He pursed his lips.

"In a manner of speaking. You sacrificed for the Agency because the Agency matters to you; you found time for me, because I matter to you; and you take time away from the Agency now because it matters to you that the children and I are happy," he summarized. "What may appear as sacrifice or selfless is, in the end, to make yourself happy as well, isn't it?" She frowned as the logic of his argument came into the picture.

"Thereby making it selfish," she concluded.

"Mmmm," he confirmed. "The difference between you and a James Ryan is merely your priorities. For Ryan, his priorities stopped being his wife and family and became freedom and his lifestyle and for the woman who walked out on her husband and children, her priorities had become another man." She considered his suggestion, and dwelled on it briefly, then with a shake of her head gave up.

"So my father's priorities changed," she assessed. "I _get_ that he and Mother didn't have what one would call a happy marriage, but how does someone go from being unhappy in his marriage to justifying abandoning his children…" she frowned as she recalled their conversation on the pier "…not to mention his mother." He stroked the backs of a trio of fingers against her cheek.

"That's a question only your father can answer, love. Do you remember a time when your mother and father were happy?" he dared to ask, drawing another frown.

"My grandmother told me once that there was a time they were very… smitten…" the word drew a smile from her "With one another – her word, not mine. He found her cool reserve endearing and she found his devil-may-care attitude charming."

"Sounds rather like us," he teased with a smile. She took exception to the remark, naturally.

"I am _nothing_ like my mother," she snapped, drawing a laugh from him.

"Mmmm, thank God for that," he quickly soothed her ruffled feathers, acknowledging his misstep. "I suspect one Abigail Holt is all the world can handle."

"One family, at least," she grumbled, then wriggled a little closer seeking warmth.

When had it gotten so chilly? She scooted even closer to him. Wordlessly, Remington untangled his legs from hers and sat up, reaching for the comforter to draw it up over them. A nudge against his upper arm as he lay back again had him stretching out on his back. Laura nuzzled into his side, resting her head beneath his shoulder and weaving a leg between his. He took this as a good sign, given she neither rose to put on night clothes nor suggested he unlock the door. It was on the very rare occasion since small feet had begun pitter-pattering on the floors, that they claimed a night to be theirs alone. With a content sigh, he tucked the covers snuggly around her backside.

"Better?"

"Perfect," she decreed, her fingers whispering over his sternum then down an arm. "My earliest memory – at least my first really clear one – was when I was four. Mother had promised to take Frances to high tea and I didn't want to go. Mother called me selfish for not wanting to go, confirming what I knew it would be like: Me, bored and squirming and her alternately scolding me and telling me I was ruining Frances's special event." She sighed, heavily. "Which I probably would have, because even then it didn't interest me."

"No tea parties with your dolls, like Sophie and Livvie, eh?"

"Not if I could get out of it," she answered, drily. He chuckled low in his throat and hugged her to him.

"So what happened?" he asked softly. She laughed quietly.

"With some fast talking, my father managed to convince Mother he'd told her a month before he wanted the family to go to the circus that weekend. It crushed her. So, he pretended to compromise: She and Frances would go to tea, and he and I would go to the circus." She smiled, wistfully, the memories of that night long since bittersweet. "That night began our tradition of watching _Atomic Man_ together." He grunted at that. If he never saw another episode that pitiful excuse for what some might call entertainment, it would be far too soon.

"A black mark against the man for certain," he grumbled. She rolled her eyes, unseen. Perversely, for that complaint alone, she decided they'd need to have an _Atomic Man_ marathon very, _very_ soon.

"More to the point," she continued, "That evening he made it clear he wasn't happy with how she spoke to me, but I didn't sense there was anything wrong between them. They were just like any of the parents on our block: Running a house, raising a family, occasionally having cross words with one another, but, at least to me, it seemed when they argued it was quickly resolved and forgotten about."

"When did it change?" Her mouth grew dry and her brow troubled. Certainly by the time she was in junior high school it had become clear her parents' marriage was not like those of all the other families she knew. Was that when it started coming apart at the seams? She didn't think so, as nearly all her memories of her childhood were overshadowed with an ever-present tension. Was that due to her own relationship with her mother, or something more that she'd mentally shoved aside? She didn't know, and that frightened her, possibly even more than dredging up old memories that might provide those answers. Her heart thrummed a little faster, and she gave her head a small shake.

"I'd have to think about it," she answered honestly, reaching for the hand lying on her arm. Tangling their fingers together, she rolled away from him to her opposite side, taking him with her, where she spooned her body into the curve of his. "We should take the children to the circus," she announced as she closed her eyes.

"A sudden craving for cotton candy?" he teased, then dropped a goodnight kiss on the top of her head as she barked the single note of a laugh.

"I'm sure I'll have my share, but no. I just think they'd enjoy it, and maybe it could become a new Steele tradition."

"I like the sound of that," he approved. She squeezed the hand held in hers.

"I like this," she murmured.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

"What wasn't?" Lifting his head, he let his lips hover near her ear.

"Admitting you enjoy being with me," he whispered. Lifting their clasped hands, she touched her lip to the back of his fingers, then drew their hands back down, pressing them against her chest.

"Depends on the day, Mr. Steele," she mumbled, as she allowed herself to succumb to sleep. "Depends on the day…"


	21. Chapter 17: Words

Chapter 17: Words

 _October 16, 1994_

"Girls, Holt," Laura called their names in the direction of the backseat of Remington's Explorer as they neared Frances's house, "How would you feel about going to get your Halloween costumes after lunch?" A trio of cheers, led by the girls, filled the backseat.

"I wanna be Mike-lange-o," Holt announced, with vigor. Remington turned to grin at Laura.

"Already admiring the Old Masters, Laura. Makes a father truly pro—" She held up a hand, to stop him.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but he means the turtle, not the artist," she cut him off.

"Who names a—"

"The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?" she prompted. "The cartoon Holt watches each afternoon while the girls do their homework with Mia" She puffed out a breath when he gave her a blank look. "All the turtles are named after an artist: Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello and Raphael."

"They fight bad guys," Holt piped up from the back seat.

"How do you not know this?" Laura wondered.

"It would seem that somehow I've been spending more time at the office than you have," he noted, wryly, then silently vowed to correct that at once.

"Soph, what about you?" Laura asked. "Have any ideas?"

"I'm going to be Thumbelina and Livvie's going to be Jasmine," she shared.

"No, not anymore I'm not," Livvie corrected. "I'm going to be the Wicked Witch from _The Wizard of Oz_!"

"Ah, wonderful movie," Remington praised. "Did you know—"

"Shhhhhhh, Da," Livvie scolded, pressing a finger against her lips. "I have to tell Sophie about my face." She returned her attention back to Sophie. "I'm going to have my face painted green just like the…" As Livvie elaborated on her plans for her costume design, Remington turned to look at Laura, slack-jawed and crestfallen.

"She shushed me, Laura," he informed her, truly stunned. Laura tried to keep her face straight, she really did, but still the corners of her mouth twitched as she reached out and patted his thigh, reassuringly.

"It's alright," she managed to assure without _too much_ mirth dancing through the words.

"She shushed me," he repeated. "Me! What happened to the little girl that hung on my every word?"

"Maybe she's realized just how many words you have?" she teased. Honestly, she couldn't help finding amusement in his predicament. How many times had she yearned to do a little shushing of her own when he began with his cinematic anecdotes. He shot her a wounded look and his lower lip protruded in a pout. She stared at him for a pair of heartbeats, then her eyes widened slightly when she realized he was genuinely upset. Turning slightly in her seat, she peered at Livvie who was still chattering.

"Olivia, don't shush your father," she reprimanded with what she hoped sounded like an appropriately stern tone.

"Okay, Mommy," Livvie chirped, then returned her attention to Sophie. "And I want a big black hat just like…"

"Better?" Laura asked the man beside her. His eyes flickered to her and then away, without answer. "You're the one who hoped Livvie would be just like me," she reminded him for the umpteenth time. He laughed aloud.

"Somehow, love, I can't quite picture you telling Abigail to shush," he retorted, drily. She frowned, hating to admit it.

"You have a point," she confessed. "Still," she held up a finger, "She is, as you have often pointed out, my daughter. You're going to have to toughen up if you expect to make it through her teen years," she advised.

"I would expect it then," he groused, as he pulled the SUV up to the curb in front of Piper home. "But she's six! A mere tike!"

"An opinionated, outspoken 'tike', with the gift of gab, much like her father," she noted, as he turned off the engine. "Alright, everyone out and remember: Best behavior." Swinging open her door and stepping out, she waited for the children to pour out of the car, then caught Livvie by the hand before she could race up the walkway. "Sophie, Holt, go with Da; Livvie and I will be there in just a minute." The statement gave Remington pause.

"Laura…" His intonation and the pained expression on his face said it all.

"We'll be right there," she replied, firmly. Resignedly, he urged his youngest and oldest towards the front door of the house. Waiting until the trio was out of earshot, Laura squatted down to look Livvie squarely in the eye.

"Am I in trouble?" Livvie worried. Laura tilted her head to the side and raised her brows.

"Not this time," she emphasized the words, making it clear that this was a one time reprieve, "But I want you to understand we have a new rule and why." Olivia watched her mother with somber eyes and worried her lower lip. Sure the little girl was paying rapt attention – rather than wandering away in her mind as she and her father were both prone to doing when bored or irritated by a topic of conversation – Laura continued, "First the rule: You are never to shush an adult, and really _shouldn't_ shush anyone."

"Even if I have to say something _really_ important?" Livvie asked quizzically, with a tilt of her head. Laura gave that a moment's thought.

"Well, that depends on if what you have to say is an emergency. You know what an emergency is right?" Livvie nodded her head eagerly.

"Like if there's a fire or if someone is hurt," she provided. Laura reached up and unlatched one of Livvie's barrettes to tuck back a straying lock.

"Smart girl," she praised. "So if there is an emergency, you may interrupt someone, _but_ otherwise we should never interrupt others, _especially_ by shushing them. Their words are as important to them as yours are to you, _which means_ you can hurt their feelings by not valuing what they have to say." Livvie's eyes widened.

"Did I hurt Da's feelings?" she wondered, the idea unthinkable to her. Laura nodded her head, slowly.

"Your every word and thought is very important to your Da, and for you to shush him made him feel his words are not _just_ as important to you as yours are to him," she explained. "So yeah, I'm afraid you did." Livvie's lip quivered at the news.

"I didn't mean to make Da sad."

"I know, and so does Da. We all make mistakes, even Da and I. And when we make a mistake, what should we do?" Livvie gnawed her bottom lip as she considered the question.

"Say sorry?" she offered. Nodding her head, Laura stood and put on a hand on Livvie's shoulder.

"That's right," she approved, as they walked towards the house. "And our new rule?"

"We don't shush anyone, especially big people," Livvie repeated.

"Perfect," Laura praised as she opened the front door. "Now, go play and remember…" She left the thought open for Livvie to finish.

"Best behavior," the raven-haired little girl completed, then ran off in search of her cousins.

The clear, bright, temperate day had commanded an outdoor luncheon that Sunday afternoon. Donald manned the grill, overseeing the cooking of hamburgers for the children and grilled salmon and veggie shish kabobs for the adults. Lunch, as always, was a boisterous event with five children under the age of eight and one teenager, the former sharing their hopes for Halloween and the newest Piper family member, Esme, joyously described how she and Frances had decorated her new room – the one her new big sister, Mindy, had graciously given up, much like Danny before her for Alex. By the time the table was cleared, dishes were cleaned and put away, all four adults gladly melted into their seats, as Laurie Beth volunteered t watch over cousins and siblings as they played on the swing set and trampoline.

"Laura," Frances began hesitantly as Donald reached for her hand, lending a little support, "I think I should tell you Dad called on Wednesday night and Donald and I…" Her courage floundered, and she looked to Donald with a plea for help in her brown eyes. Patting her hand, reassuringly, he looked at Laura.

"We've agreed to have dinner with him this evening," he finished. Remington's eyes slanted to Laura just in time to see the single blink before her face settled into a look of icy calm indifference.

"Alright." Two syllables, nothing more. Frances looked crestfallen.

"Laura, please don't be like that," she pled.

"Be like what? I said 'alright'," Laura defended. "You know I've already seen him. Why wouldn't you do the same?" she asked logically. "Do I need to point out that I'm the one who gave him your telephone number so he _could_ contact you?" For ten days she'd been able to put him out of mind, more or less, and now here it was again: All the questions, all the uncertainty… that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I just don't want you to be upset," Frances persisted.

"I'm not upset," Laura repeated, "But I would like to ask something of you."

"What is that?" Frances asked eagerly.

"When he asked about you, I told him I didn't have the right to answer on your behalf, he'd have to speak with you," Laura informed her. "I'd like your word…" she looked at Donald "…both of your word, you'll do the same. No anecdotes about our work," she shook her head as she gesticulated towards Remington with her hand, "No answering questions about Remington, no charming tales about the children; as of right now, I haven't told him anything about them, including their names." Frances's brows knitted in confusion, but Donald squeezed her hand, effectively silencing her before she could reply.

"We give you our word," Donald promised Laura for them both.

"Thank you," she acknowledged with a nod of her head. "Are the children going to dinner with you?"

"Well, we had intended to bring them," Frances shared, "But Dad said he'd like it to be just the two of us, so he can answer any questions I might have without exposing the children to 'the dirty laundry.'" She tittered nervously. "Do you remember when Grandma used to tell us 'we never air our dirty laundry in public?'"

"I do."

"Well, I don't mind telling you I'm more than a little bit nervous seeing him after all this time," Frances continued to babble. "What's he like now? I remember him having a great laugh. It was so loud you could hear it no matter where you were in the house. Does he still have that great laugh? Does he look the same? I wouldn't imagine that he does. I mean, it's been twenty-two years after all. What do you even say when you see him? I mean, what's the proper way to greet the father you haven't heard from in so long? Do we still call him Dad? I don't even know what to say to him, where even to begin. What did you and he talk about when you met him? Laura?" Laura had tuned partly out. This wasn't a discussion she'd planned to have today, and given she had yet to share the particulars of their conversation with even Remington – other than the small tidbit about why her father hadn't made an attempt to contact her when he knew she was in trouble – she certainly wasn't prepared to go into detail with Frances.

"It was a very brief meeting," she answered instead. "He looks the same as he always did, only older."

"Well, what did you say to him?" Frances pursued. Laura threw her arms out in frustration.

"I asked him where the hell he'd been the last twenty years and why he bothered to come back now!" She winced and Remington reached for her hand when her voice reached the ears of the children, four heads – those of Laurie Beth, Sophie, Livvie and Holt – turning to look at her. She forced herself to smile reassuringly at the children.

"Livvie," she called to her daughter where she stood in the middle trampoline, "Why don't you show Laurie Beth how to do a front flip?" As she'd hoped, the diversion worked. Flopping back in her chair, she pulled her hand away from Remington's and crossed her arms.

"I don't want to talk about this," she insisted. "We met, I asked him a few questions then I left. I'm not you, Frances. I don't necessarily consider it good news that he is back. I'm not sure _how_ I feel about it, frankly."

"I don't understand," Frances answered with a shake of her head. "I honestly believed when the shock wore off, you'd be thrilled he was back. You and Daddy were always so close, after all."

"That's the problem!" Laura responded, emphatically. Recognizing her voice was rising again, she took a breath and let it out slowly. "It wasn't the same for me when he left as it was for you. You were always close to Mother and she was still there. The parent I was close to, the parent I relied on just disappeared. You barely shed a tear when he left whereas I—"

"I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself," Frances interrupted to defend. "I was planning a wedding and Mother was in such bad shape, plus someone had to keep an eye on you after the way you acted out." Laura blinked her eyes several times, the description of her stinging in its honesty.

"Exactly my point! I was barely sixteen and not only an inconvenience for Mother but a burden on you," she countered. "You think I couldn't _feel_ that? And even then, while you and Mother were focused on the wedding and then after you left, I was the one left to figure out how to pay the bills, to do the grocery shopping, have maintenance done on the house while Mother pulled herself together. Father wasn't here to teach me to drive, like he was for you; he didn't attend my high school graduation, like he did for you. I had to rely on Grandma to take me to visit colleges, to weed my way through admission and financial aid applications. All of it because of _his_ choices! My thoughts, my feelings weren't even a consideration to him then anymore than they were now when he decided to just _show up,_ expecting just what exactly? That we could pick up right where we left off? Well, it's not that easy. I can't just forget the past and I can't pretend it doesn't matter. I need time and answers to figure out how he fits into my life…" she swept an arm out, encompassing Remington and the children – "…into _our lives_." Frances reached for her hand.

"No matter what he's done, he's still our father, Laura," she reminded quietly.

"Yes, he is," Laura answered with a mournful quality, "And for more than two decades, that didn't matter to him." She stood abruptly. "If you'll excuse me." The trio remaining at the table watched her cross the yard, then lean down and speak to Holt where he sat on a swing, before stepping behind him and giving him a push.

"I didn't mean to upset her," Frances apologized. Remington fingered his glass, thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Laura. While she and Frances long ago had made their amends, Frances was still as clueless as Abigail when it came to Laura.

"You can't press her, Frances," he advised, carefully. "Laura needs time. Time to formulate methodical questions, to consider the answers, then time to mull all she has learned and make a decision she can live with."

"And how long will all that take?" she wanted to know, leading him to slowly shake his head.

"I've no idea," he admitted, with a wry smile. With a miniscule shake of his head, he watched Laura smile radiantly down at their son in response to something he'd said., "All Laura's ever needed is time to work things through. Let her have it. She'll come to you, and him, when she's ready."

* * *

"'And into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him and it was still hot,'" Remington read aloud, then closed the book as their story that evening – _Where the Wild Things Are_ – ended.

"Alright, Sophie, let's end the day on a bright note. What is one good thing to happened to you today?" Laura asked. This was one of the newer Steele traditions that had begun the year prior after a week of Sophie growing increasingly anxious that she might not do well in the upcoming first grade spelling bee and the normally devil-may-care Olivia's decidedly grumpy disposition. The girls had both seemed to feel a little better when they'd been tucked in and _she'd_ realized their answers had given she and Remington a glimpse into the children's days that they might not otherwise have had.

"I got Prince Charming a toy with my allowance and he really likes it!," Sophie shared, proudly. Charming had been batting around the ball with bells inside of it most of the evening.

"I think you're right," Laura agreed with a smile and a stroke of a blonde head, "And you made him very happy thinking about him. Livvie? One good thing that happened to you today?"

"I found a Susan.. Susan…"

"Susan B. Anthony," Laura supplied helpfully.

"Yeah!" Livvie nodded. "I found a Susan B. Anthony coin in the parking lot at the store and put it in my piggy bank!"

"A sound practice, putting away what you don't need for a rainy day," Remington praised, bussing her atop her head, before rising to his feet and leaning down to tuck her in. "Sleep well, a stór."

After the girls were tucked in and Charming's ear were given a good scratch, lights were turned off and Remington and Laura stepped into the hallway, closing the door until it was left open only a crack, Laura turned to him.

"I'm just going to check on Holt," he informed her. Holt, their little napper, had quickly begun to fade as Remington and the children had been preparing dinner. Laura had made an executive decision and whisked him off for a warm bath before the meal – a wise choice as the little guy had been struggling to keep his eyes open before dinner was over and was fast asleep within seconds of his head hitting his pillow. As such, he'd missed his own opportunity to wish his son a goodnight. She smiled up at him.

"It's a beautiful night. Join me for a swim?" she stepped a little closer, to draw a finger slowly down his chest in a hint of her intentions. "Melina is spending the night out and Mia won't be back until close to midnight." A rumble from his throat - part hum, part playful growl – signaled his overwhelming approval of her suggestion.

"I like the way you think, Mrs. Steele." Her smiled widened.

"I thought you might. I'll change then grab the monitors."

"I'll be right in," he promised, dropping a brief, sweet kiss against her lips before turning into their son's room, and she continued down the hall to the master.

He found Holt still sleeping soundly, tucked beneath the covers as he'd been left. Still, Remington tucked the comforter around his boy a little more securely, before leaning down to press a kiss against his son's peaceful brow. The sharp pang of regret that washed over him unexpectedly left him shoving his hands in his pockets. It was almost eerie, the resemblance between Holt and himself, Holt the very image of the little boy once known as Aiden, whose image was still depicted in a frame in the family room amongst other family photos. He'd been close to Holt's age now when he'd found himself on the doorstep of the Shanahan's – one of only two homes in his childhood memories where he'd been truly happy, had felt loved… wanted. Then, in what seemed like little more than an instant, he'd watched that home disappear through the rearview window of a car, the fear of what came next clawing at him.

That his own son had known only love, security, happiness? For that he could not be more grateful. Were something to-

Caught unaware, he flinched when Laura's arms slid beneath his to wrap around his waist from behind.

"Even if something happened to both of us," she reminded him in a hushed voice, "They'll be surrounded by a legacy of love: Thomas and Catherine, Marcos and Elena, Frances and Donald, your brothers and sisters and Mildred? Any one of them would lay down their lives to ensure the children will never know what you did." He stepped out of the frame of her arms, drawing her into a brief embrace.

"You know me too well," he assessed, with a quick press of the side of his head to the top of hers. Releasing her, then guided her towards door then down the hallway towards their room, taking care to keep a step behind her so that he could admire her swimsuit… then silently grunted his disapproval. A one piece.

"I need to swim at least twenty-five laps before we play, Mr. Steele," she admonished. There were times he'd swear the woman was a bloody witch, reading his thoughts as she had twice now in as many minutes.

"A legacy of love, eh?" he asked quickly. Unseen, she rolled her eyes. He'd been busted and he knew it.

"It had a certain poetry to it that I thought would appeal to you," she supplied.

"Oh, no! I forgot!" Livvie's cry of dismay escaped Sophie's room and echoed down the hall. Without misseing a beat, Remington and Laura turned as one to walk swiftly towards the room. Before they could reach the doorway, Livvie flung open the door and came flying out, a half-asleep Sophie stumbling out behind her, rubbing at her eyes and wondering what was going on.

"What is it, a stór?" Remington asked, swinging her up in his arms when she neared.

"I forgot!"

"So we heard. What exactly is it you forgot?" Laura had a good idea, and guided Sophie back into her bedroom.

"Let's get you back to bed, Soph."

Livvie laid a hand on each of her father's cheeks.

"I'm sorry I made you sad, Da," she apologized, blue eyes staring at him earnestly. She shook her head. "I don't like it when you're sad."

"Ah, Livvie…"

It was all he could manage to say. Wrapping his daughter in a tight embrace he couldn't help but reflect that here was another way in which Livvie was her mother's daughter: A gentle touch and a few sincere words, and his very heart would drop straight into their hands.

A subtle movement in front of them left his eyes flickering upwards. Standing in the doorway to Sophie's room, resting a shoulder against the jamb, Laura watched father and daughter together, her eyes sending him a silent message when their gazes merged. Despite all the bumps and turns in the road; despite the occasional sharp words or misunderstandings; despite all the surprises life brought that were completely out of their control….

 _It's a good life, Mr. Steele._

He gave his head a slow, minute nod in answer.

 _Yes. Yes, it is._


	22. Chapter 18: TGIF

Chapter 18: TGIF

Frances anxiously rubbed her hands against her lap as her eyes wandered the restaurant. When her father had suggested going to dinner, she'd thought to tell him she'd prefer to do it within the familiar confines of her home, but she'd never been one to speak up where her mother or father were concerned – even more so in the case of the latter. So, of course, she'd not spoken of her preferences and had instead agreed to meet here, at T.G.I. Fridays. The restaurant at six o'clock on the mid-fall early evening was dim, probably lending to privacy which wasn't a _bad_ thing, but the nearby bar area was packed full of avid – i.e. loud – football fans, most cheering on the Rams as they played the New York Giants, which, of course meant a quiet conversation could be intermittently drowned out. The restaurant was a horrible choice, but it also wasn't the sanctuary of her home.

Adding to her anxiety was how lunch had ended with Laura. She didn't like seeing her little sister so upset, but, honestly, she didn't understand Laura at all. Why wasn't Laura thrilled their father was back? Why didn't Laura understand she had things she was curious about too? What if this time she and her father could forge a strong relationship? Unlike Laura, her children weren't inundated with grandparents they saw regularly. There was Abigail, who they saw a few times a year, but as for Donald's parents? Well, the children knew them mostly through birthday and Christmas cards. It might be nice for them to have a grandparent that lived only a couple hours away, especially for Alex and Esme.

Her eyes snapped to the doorway and her hand jerked up, as a sliver of light heralded someone's arrival.

"Frannie, relax," Donald soothed, grabbing her fidgety hand, and holding it.

"I can't," she insisted, her voice pitching a full level higher than normal, emphasizing her anxious state. "What if he's here right now and I just don't recognize him?" she proposed, as her eyes wandered the room again. "What if he's changed his mind?"

"It's not even ten after yet," Donald pointed out after looking at his watch. "He's just running a little behind." With his free hand, he signaled the waitress. "Relax," he repeated, then addressed the waitress when she stopped at the table. "I'll have a gin and tonic and a strawberry margarita for my wife."

"Yes, sir," the cute young blonde who couldn't be a day over twenty-two replied. "Are you ready to order? Maybe you'd like to start with an appetizer?" Donald glanced quickly at the menu.

"The potato skins, please."

"I'll put the order in right away. Be right back with your drinks."

"Potato skins," Donald repeated. "You know how much you like them." Frances rubbed her hands against her legs again.

"I couldn't possibly eat at a time like this, Donald," she protested, flabbergasted by the very suggestion.

"Frannie, you're not doing yourself any favors—"

"It's him," Frances squeaked straightening in her seat, her eyes glued on the man who'd just walked through the restaurant doors. Laura had been right: Their father hadn't changed much since last she saw him. He'd aged and his auburn hair had turned mostly grey, but little else about him was different, he even wore his hair the same. She watched as his eyes panned over the room, skirted past her, then returned and settled upon her. A lift of his hand in hello acknowledged he had recognized her. She wiped her damp palms against her skirt, then rose as he closed in.

"Frances!" She flinched. She'd forgotten how his voice 'boomed' when he spoke at times. She forced a shaky smile on her lips, and stepped into his offered embrace.

"Hi, Dad." It felt as if she was hugging a stranger. Had he always worn the cologne he was wearing? It had a cool edge to it she didn't particularly care for. He leaned back to look down at her.

"I'd forgotten you have my grandmother's red hair," he commented. "You remind me of her."

"I do?" The thought was surprising. She'd been in Kindergarten when her great grandmother had died and had only vague of memories of her.

"Yeah, you do." Stepping away from her, he offered a hand to Donald. "Donald."

"Mr. Holt," Donald returned, exchanging the offered handshake.

"Jack," Jack insisted. "You're no longer the kid dating my daughter and I never much cared for the 'mister' and 'sir's'. I gotta tell you, it always made me feel old." Donald laughed in answer.

" _That_ I can understand. Any time one of Mindy or Danny's friends call me 'sir', I look over my shoulder for my father." He held out his hand towards the table. "Please, have a seat," he invited, as the server returned with the drinks he'd ordered. "What'll you have?"

"Water with lemon will be fine," he told the waitress. As he took a seat next to Donald and across from Frances, his eyes wandered the room a final time.

"Is something wrong?" Frances asked, worriedly. Jack did a double take then offered his eldest daughter a smile.

"Ah, nothing, nothing. I guess I was just hoping you'd bring your sister along." He thanked the waitress when she brought him his water. "You said you were having lunch together this afternoon?" He diverted his attention to the waitress. "I'll have the Cobb salad no bacon please, with Italian dressing on the side." He looked towards Donald with a wry smile. "My wife insists we eat healthy. John and I will sneak out a couple times a month for a good steak, but otherwise I try to play by her rules." Donald laughed and patted his stomach which had slightly thickened in the past few years.

"Frannie is a wonderful cook, and it shows!" he praised.

"Frances always did enjoy working in the kitchen with her mother," Jack shared. "They could spend hours cooking and baking. Then, when they weren't in the kitchen, they were cleaning or doing the laundry or sewing dresses," he continued, sounding exhausted by the idea of it all. "Isn't that right, Frances?" Frances smoothed her hands over her skirt.

"Mother liked a tidy house and to have your meals on the table at a certain time," Frances responded primly.

"Yes, I know. But I always wished she'd leaned less heavily you, so that you could have been involved in more activities, like Laura."

"I didn't mind," Frances assured. "All I ever wanted was to make a nice home for my family." Donald reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"And you have," he complimented, sincerely.

"How long have you been married now?" Jack asked. Donald found the question odd given he and Frances had been planning their wedding when her father disappeared.

"We celebrated our twenty-second anniversary last June," Frances provided, proudly.

"And how many children do you have?" Jack wondered. They'd discussed few details during their phone call other than where to meet for dinner this evening after an awkward several minutes of stumbling re-introductions.

"Five," she replied. "Danny, our oldest, is twenty-one and in his junior year of college. Mindy is twenty, and in her sophomore year. Laurie Beth is fourteen and just began high school. Then there are Alex, who is six and his sister, Esme, who's three." Jack whistled.

"Five! I knew you always wanted to be a mother, but five!" he repeated, honestly in awe. "You with five children, Laura with – What is it? – three?"

"That's right," Frances confirmed. She didn't see the harm in saying as much given Laura had said the children were on the beach with her when their father had first reappeared.

"I was surprised to see none of Laura's children resembled her," he observed aloud. "The younger two look exactly like their father, and the oldest has red in her hair, but that was the extent of any similarity that I saw."

"Oh, well, that isn't surprising since—"

"None of our five resemble Frannie or I either," Donald interrupting, giving Frances's hand a firm squeeze. "Danny looks like my father, Laurie Beth a combination of Laura and my mother and Abigail swears Mindy is the spitting image of her own mother."

"And we adopted our youngest two," Frances continued along in Donald's vein, remorseful that she'd nearly broken their promise to Laura.

"Adopted? We share that in common then," Jack told her. Seeing the confused look on Frances's face, his lips parted in surprise. "I guess Laura didn't tell you I adopted my wife's son, John." It took a long heartbeat before Frances spoke.

"No, she didn't," she admitted, the stab of what she saw as betrayal running deep. "How old is he?"

"Seventeen and a junior in high school. He's just a really, really great kid." He took a long drink of water, then added, "In fact, I don't know if I ever would have had the guts to try to see you girls if not for him."

"What do you mean?"

"John has always wanted siblings, and Bren and I? Well, we weren't going to be having any more. To know all I had to do was try to make things right between you and Laura to give him that? I had to find a way." A frown flitted across Donald's face as he turned to regard Frances as she took in the information.

"Does he know about Laura and me?" she wondered, fidgeting with her drink. Conversation paused as the waitress delivered the potato skins for Frances and Donald and Jack's salad.

"Not yet," he answered, honestly.

"Why not?" He chose his words carefully.

"I didn't want him to get his hopes up in case I couldn't find the backbone to see you girls or if you didn't want to try to… fix things," he admitted. Frances silently nodded.

"I don't know how much he'd have in common with Laura and me," she mulled aloud. "I mean, he's younger than Danny and Mindy. We'd be more like aunts than sisters."

"Tell me about your children. You said your oldest two are in college. Where do they go?"

"They're both at San Diego State," Donald offered. "Danny received a scholarship for baseball there and is majoring in civil engineering. Mindy is studying to be a nurse."

"Mindy and Danny have always been close," Frances expounded, "It made it so much easier to have them that far from home knowing they'd at least have each other."

"Do you get to many of Danny's games?" Jack questioned.

"When we can. It's nearly a three hour drive. After Alex came to us, it was just very hard on him. And now that we have Esme…" Frances let Jack finish the thought for himself. "Danny understands. He was never very fond of long car rides himself."

"How long ago did you adopt them?"

"Alex came to us after his family died in a house fire three years ago," Frances explained. "We only found out he had a little sister who'd survived as well when her placement fell apart. She's been with us for a few weeks now."

"I bet they enjoy having Laura's kids to play with; they're all close in age, right?" Frances nodded.

"Well, yes, they are. S—"

"Frannie, have a potato skin while they're still warm," Donald cut her off. He slid a pair of potato skins from the serving dish to an appetizer plate and set it before her. "Laura said you visited her at their house. Redondo Beach is not exactly around the corner," Donald smiled, to soften the rebuff, "But we make it a point to get together a couple times a month."

"Well, more than that," Frances corrected, taking a bite of her appetizer. "There's also the holidays, birthdays, ballet recitals, school plays… Oh, and of course our trip each year to—"

"Celebrate Christmas," Donald stepped in again, then gave Frances a pointed look.

"And Abigail? Does she go on these Christmas trips as well?"

"Of course," Frances replied, as though it was a foregone conclusion. "It wouldn't be Christmas without Mother there."

"You and Abigail always did get along well with one another," Jack mused. "I imagine she was thrilled Laura settled down and had a family, as Abigail always hoped she would. Did things improve between them after I… After Laura got older?"

"Well," Frances considered, "Mother and Laura will never see eye-to-eye on very much, but they try for the children's sake."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you and Laura have grown closer. I often wished when the two of you were growing up that you had more in common."

"Well, we've worked very hard to appreciate our differences instead of feeling like we were being judged for them," Frances answered, as she pushed away her plate.

"Are you ready to order dinner?" Donald asked, beginning to raise his hand to call their server.

"Where have you been since you left?" Frances blurted out, leading him to drop his hand.

"I've already explained all of this to Laura," Jack replied, "At least the generalities. I'm sure she's told you."

"No, she hasn't," Frances answered, emphatically and with a frown. "Laura's not—"

"Frannie," Donald interrupted, drawing her name out in warning.

"I don't care what you promised Laura, Donald," Frances shot back, her voice rising an octave. "I didn't tell Laura what she could or could not speak about. I have something I want to say and I'm going to say it!" Donald's lips promptly clamped shut. There was no point in arguing with Frances in a state like this. It was seldom that she protested, but when she was inclined to do so, it would happen one way or another. She turned her head to look at Jack again. "Laura's not the same person that she was before you left. She's not spontaneous, or carefree. She doesn't chatter or tell you every detail of her day. She's reserved and _very_ private. When something's bothering her, she keeps it to herself and if you try to press her, she'll push you away. Why, I think the only person she ever _really_ talks to at all is Remington and even then he's always saying 'you have to wait for her to come to you.' The only thing I know is the two of you met and that I have been asked to respect her privacy when I speak with you." Jack stared at her for a long second, then burst out in the laugh she'd mentioned earlier, drawing the eyes of many nearby diners.

"Well, you're certainly not the meek child I knew anymore," he complimented. "What is it you'd like to know?"

"Where have you been?" she repeated.

"I never left California. I lived in Lancaster for a few years, then moved to San Bernadino where I've lived since."

"I see." She deflated before Donald's eyes. Jack been within a few hours of LA all along, and he'd never made the effort to see either of them. Not when she married, or when Laura graduated from school, or in the ten years since she and Donald had moved back to LA from Connecticut. "How long have you been married?"

"Fifteen years now," he answered, easily. Frances shook her head slowly.

"Does she know about Laura and me?" Frances wondered.

"She knows I have two daughters and that we're estranged, yes." The answer drew a frown to her brow.

"Estranged? Well, that's not really fair. You make it sound as though Laura and I had a choice when we never did," she criticized.

"Maybe not at first, but I think it's fair to say our estrangement was a mutual choice after time, don't you?" Jack challenged. "Did you ever look for me?" Her frown deepened.

"Well, no, but—"

"Your sister and her husband are detectives, so I feel pretty confident saying if either of them had looked for me, they would have found me since I haven't been hiding: My name, address and telephone number are publicly listed, the house is in my name, and the utilities," he summarized. "I may have left, but you and your sister also made a choice not to find me. Isn't that fair to say?" Frances's head dropped forward and she stared at the hands in her lap, feelings hurt by her father's tone and, frankly, more than a little embarrassed. It was deeply ingrained in her that you should never challenge an authority figure, and she felt like a child who'd been firmly reprimanded for her audacity. Further, she was ashamed to admit her father might have a point. Were they equally at fault for not trying to find him? That it was even a remote possibility made her distinctly uncomfortable.

But Donald was having none of it.

"Wait just a minute, Jack," he stepped in, a smile on his face but his eyes hard as granite, "I think you're out of line here." Under the table he patted Frances's leg. "Laura was just a kid and Frannie wasn't much older when you—"

"Now, Donald, you know what the doctor said about your blood pressure," Frances scolded, lightly. "Daddy isn't exactly wrong," she defended, begrudgingly. "I didn't try to find him either. I never even thought about it actually," she admitted. "Did Mother know where you were?"

"I never told her where I was going, if that's what you're asking," Jack replied. "When I left that night, I had no idea where I was going, I just knew I had to get away from it all. I threw my bags in the car, stopped at the bank and then just drove. I stopped in Lancaster for dinner. I liked the town, so I rented an office and an apartment then stayed." He shrugged a shoulder. "I guess Abigail would have had an idea that I was in the general area of Palmdale, since that's where my divorce attorney was."

"I never thought of Mother as a divorcee," Frances breathed, as stunned now by the revelation as she would have been twenty-two-years before.

"It was all very quick, very quiet to keep any ugly gossip from spreading around," Jack explained. To Donald's surprise, Frances began laughing.

"No… ugly… gossip," she gasped around her laughter, then suddenly sobered. "At my wedding, I don't think there was a single guest who didn't refer to me as 'the poor dear' or 'such a brave girl.' Laura spent her final years of high school being called 'That poor Holt girl'. Laura! And Mother? Well, she couldn't hold her head high until she moved back to Connecticut where people assumed when she said you were 'no longer with us' that you'd passed." Jack choked on his drink of water.

"She let people think I was dead?" he laughed, thoroughly amused. "That takes a sense of humor I never saw in her. If I had, maybe things would have been different." Smoothly, he changed the topic. "You said you go on a trip with Laura and her family each Christmas? Do you enjoy traveling? I'd think Laura and her husband would get tired of it given how often they go overseas for business."

"Oh, not any more—"

"Frannie," Donald groaned wearily. Frances continued speaking as though he never had.

"Not for business, not since the children came along. Anytime they travel overseas now, the children are with them, and Laura and Remington wouldn't take a chance a case would put them in danger…"


	23. Chapter 19: Decisions

Chapter 19: Decisions

 _Thursday, October 20, 1994_

Laura kicked off her heels and crossed her stockinged feet on the corner of her desk. Absently, she clicked the pen she held in her hand – click… click… click… click… clickclickclickclickclick.

Who was she kidding? She was accomplishing nothing this morning, merely trying to avoid the inevitable.

She hadn't heard from Frances – not on Sunday night after Frances and Donald had met Jack for dinner; not on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. Her sister's silence after what she'd consider a monumental event said all there was to say: Frances was having a good pout and was waiting on an apology.

Well, she'd be waiting a long time, because as far as Laura was concerned, she had nothing to apologize for. In fact, if any apologies were owed, they were to her! How easy it was for Frances. She and Jack had barely interacted, neither of their interests remotely the same. As she'd said at lunch on Sunday, Frances hadn't batted an eye when Jack had walked out. Sure, it was easy for her to forgive and forget.

But not for her. There were still questions she needed answers to.

And the only way to get them meant seeing her father again.

For a while she'd managed to convince herself it would just be easier to pretend he'd never come back. It hadn't been that difficult. Remington wouldn't approach the subject of her father unless she opened the door in invitation… and she hadn't. Her father wasn't going to show up at the office or just pick up the phone and call… she'd made it patently clear that those decisions were hers and hers alone to make. A quick shake of Remington's head – which she had not seen as he'd been half a step behind her, but somehow she'd simply known he' done – had stopped Bernice cold when she'd begun to ask about Laura's meeting with her father, then another unseen motion – a lift of a pair of fingers – had guaranteed Mildred understood the topic was off limits. No one to remind her, no one to prod her. Maybe it could have been a simple as that.

Then Frances had gone and unraveled the fantasy by bringing their father up… not to mention her disbelief Laura hadn't simply welcomed him back with open arms.

Ha!

It had been twenty-two-years! _Twenty-two-years!_ If the man had hoped to find the adoring teen eagerly awaiting his return… Well, he was about two decades too late for that! There had been a time she would have flung herself in his arms and promised him the moon and the stars if only he wouldn't go away again. That time was long past. He'd betrayed her trust. He'd broken his promise to always be in her corner. He'd left her to suffer, knowingly.

She was no longer the little girl who believed her Daddy could do no wrong.

She was the woman who knew he could, and she had far more people than just herself to think about this time around. There were the children. She wouldn't risk her father doing a fast tango through their lives, breaking their hearts when he disappeared into the misty night.

Then there was Remington. The world-renowned detective. Old movie aficionado. The Earl of Claridge, son of the Marquess Westmoreland. The man claimed as a son and brother by a Greek family known for smuggling. Former thief and con artist. They had surrounded themselves with ferociously loyal family and friends, most of whom knew Remington Steele was not quite who he appeared to be. She would not chance inviting someone into their lives who might put Remington at risk – Not even her own father.

Which took her full circle: She needed more answers and there was only one way she was going to get them.

Thoroughly irritated, she dropped her feet off the desk, sat up, then tossing the pen onto her desk she picked up the piece of paper she'd scribbled upon earlier. With a puff of breath, she snatched up the receiver of the phone and plugged in a number. Assuming her father would be at work on a Thursday morning, she'd looked up his office phone number this morning.

"Jack Holt." She was rendered temporarily speechless. She'd expected a receptionist to answer the phone, allowing her a few seconds, maybe a minute to gather herself before her father picked up the phone.

"Hi, D-," she stumbled. She wet suddenly parched lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. "Hi, it's Laura."

"Laura!" Jack exclaimed, smiling as he leaned back in his desk chair. "I was hoping I'd hear from you." His eagerness only heightened her anxiety.

"Yes… well… I was wondering if you'd like to meet me for lunch tomorrow," she announced, then back pedaled. "I don't know what I was thinking. It's a Friday and San Bernadino isn't just around the corner. I'll just call another—"

"Actually, I'm only working Tuesday through Thursday these days. I guess you could say I'm getting my feet wet for retirement," he joked. When she was unsure what to say and her silence lingered, he continued, "Where and at what time?" _You can still get out of this, Laura, all you have to do is—_

"There's a diner," she provided the cross streets for him. "They make the best burger in LA. Remington only eats there under protest."

"Sounds like my kind of place," Jack approved. "I'll be there at noon, straight up. And, Champ?" His use of her old nickname made her heart ache and her stomach feeling a little queasy. "I look forward to seeing you."

"I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow." She abruptly hung up the phone and picked up her pen again, determined to finish reviewing the file in front of her.

Zack and Kiara were working a case that had them confounded. Their client, Kendal Caraway, was being stalked by an ex-boyfriend with whom she'd broken up after becoming convinced he'd had a part in the disappearance of his wife. Terrified the same fate would befall her and deemed 'paranoid' and 'nuts' by the local police, she'd turned to the Agency for help. Zack and Kiara were convinced Caraway was neither of those things, and both had been witness to the boyfriend's habit of 'accidentally' bumping into their client, no matter how often she changed her routines. Rather than thinking she was 'nuts' both fully believed Caraway's ex didn't simply have a part in wife's disappearance, but was fully responsible for it. But the man hadn't left a single apparent clue, and Burton and Warmack had hit a brick wall, encouraging them to turn to her to see if her sharp eye and instincts could pick up on something they'd missed.

Five minutes later, she tossed down her pen with a frustrated growl. She wasn't going to be able to concentrate on anything at all, until she cleared her head. Slipping back on her heels, she crossed her office, cut through the private break room, and strode into Remington's office where he sat at his desk, tapping keys on the computer, checking any alarm codes that had been reported on their client's home and business systems. With a frown, he made a note on the legal pad in front of him.

"Problem?" she divined.

"More of a nuisance," he corrected with a quick smile, before scribbling again on the pad. "One of the windows at the municipal gallery appears to have a bad sensor. I'll have Graham and Celek take a look." He set down his pen, and watched as she paced the room. "Now may not be the time to bring it up," he assessed, given her state, "But Celek's final day is a little over two weeks from now." She puffed out a long breath, annoyed with herself. Thank God someone was paying attention around here, because it had completely slipped her mind. She clipped across the room and jabbed the intercom button with her finger.

"Listen up, pal. Boss or no boss, I warned you if you called me one more time to recover an email you accidentally deleted I'd tell Laura…" Bernice growled, allowing the threat to hang in the air. Laura tipped her head to the side and regarded the man before her, who grinned without remorse at her.

"How many times have I told you the staff are not your personal play toys? Particularly _this_ staff."

"A man has to take his fun where he can find it, Laura," he replied, without apology.

"What is it exactly you were planning on telling me, Bernice?"

"That you might want to consider signing _Mr. Steele_ up for a rudimentary course on internet and email usage," Bernice grumbled.

"If _you_ don't stop playing right into his hands…" she turned her gaze on Remington, "And if you don't stop baiting her, I may sign the two of you up for family counseling," she threatened. "Honestly," she huffed, "The two of you are like bickering siblings." She huffed a final time for good measure. "Bernice, start placing ads for a new intern. Start with the newspapers then submit a notice to all the major universities in a three hour radius."

"You got it." With that, the intercom went dead.

"Accidentally deleted emails," she snorted pacing away from his desk again. She rubbed at her arms as she recalled what had brought her to Remington's office. Sitting back in his chair, he waited her out.

He was relieved, frankly, having a good idea what was on her mind. Since lunch on Sunday, her temper had been shorter than normal and she'd begun to voluntarily remove herself rather than subject her family to her precarious mood. Last evening he'd joined her for her run, while Miri watched over the children and the lasagna baked, in the hopes she might open up. Instead, occasional thoughts on Livvie's upcoming birthday were interspersed with long periods of silence. Then, after the children had gone to bed, she'd donned her swimsuit and had swam laps for more the better part of the hour, before disappearing upstairs to shower and go to bed, without having said so much as a goodnight to him. She hadn't rejected him precisely, but had turned away just enough to make him a bit jittery himself.

"I called my father. We're going to have lunch tomorrow afternoon," she finally spoke. Resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair, he steepled his fingers in front of him, waiting her out. "I think a part of me hoped by ignoring it, he'd just go away." She gave him a pained expression. "I've never thought of myself as a coward before and I don't particularly like the feeling." His brows drew together.

"You? A coward? What on earth would make you say a thing like that?"

"I see him, I hear his voice – Hell, even just the thought of him," she threw out her arms, emphasizing her anxiety, "And it's as though someone has turned back time and I'm there: In that house… _alone_ … after he leaves and all those same feelings set in – Confusion, hurt, fear, that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's all I can do to hold it all together, To not fall apart like I did then." She crossed her arms again and glared at him. "I've told you that before," she accused. Remington stood and circled the desk. Leaning his backside against it, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Do you think I wasn't as equally affected the first time I met with Father?" he proposed. "After a lifetime of believing he'd abandoned me for no other reason than I'd been born on the wrong side of the bed sheets." He visibly shuddered at the memory of the drive to Hardwick House, pacing nervously, waiting for that library door to open. "All the anger, all the fear…" he swallowed hard "…the hope that I hadn't been unwanted at all, that I'd been as lost to him as he was to me. The only time I've been more terrified in my life was when I believed I'd lost _you._ Did you consider me a coward, as well?"

"Of course not," she snapped with a glower.

"And when we discovered Daniel and Father's ruse? My first instinct was to board the first flight to anywhere. I felt as if I might drown in the fury of their betrayal: The man who claimed to be my father, not, and my true father having turned me away after all. Did you consider me a coward then?" Her feet stilled, and she slumped where she stood, her anxiety beginning to fade.

"You know I didn't."

"Then, how…" he pulled his hands from his pockets while standing and went to her "…can you consider yourself a coward now? Hmmm?" Circling one arm around her waist, he palmed her head in a hand. "You're not a coward, Laura. You're merely human." With a heavy exhale she briefly leaned her forehead against his chest.

"I hate it," she bemoaned. He nodded his head above her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"I know."

They groaned in unison when the intercom buzzed. Two minutes. It was all the time they'd have alone together, it seemed. And it wasn't surprising. Disengaging from his embrace, Laura walked to his desk and picked up the receiver.

"Yes, Bernice?"

"Marcos Androkus is on line one for _him_."

"Marcos?" she glanced at her watch. A frisson of fear skittered down her spine. "But it's after one in the morning in Greece." Remington noticeably stiffened where he stood, then strode across the room and took the phone from her.

"Bernice, transfer him, if you don't mind," he directed. Dropping the receiver into the cradle, he pushed he button for the speaker phone when it began to ring.

"Steele, here," he announced.

"Xenos, my son," Marcos's booming voice transmitted over the remarkably clear lines, given the Trans-Atlantic call. "Go, get our Lara. I've news she will wish to hear." Remington and Laura exchanged a worried glance. The hour, the wish for both of their presence, all foreshadowed unpleasant news.

"I'm here, Marcos," she spoke.

"I've had word from Korydallos, and it is troubling," he informed them, wasting no time with the niceties. "This Roselli, he was released—" Laura sat down hard on the side of the desk, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck that portended threat stood on end.

"Released?!" she cut him off, equally stunned and offended. She looked at Remington who was rubbing his neck in alarmed disbelief. "He was given twenty years!"

"Our prisons are, how you say, páno apó tin katoikiméni?"

"Overcrowded," Remington supplied.

"Yes, overcrowded. There is much violence, many tarachés…"

"Riots," Remington translated for Laura in an undertone.

"European leaders point to Greece and say we are afilánthropos…"

"Inhumane."

"We, the Greeks," Marcos said with derision. He grew more heated as he continued to speak. 'This Roselli finished dýo pémpta of his sentence for his attack upon tin oikogéneiá mou, ta paidiá mou, here, in Oia! Échei timoritheí arketá, léne. Arketá!" he spat out. "Eínai tóra to próvlima tou Mexikoú, léne!" Remington let out the breath he'd been holding in a loud whoosh of relief.

"Marcos, English, please, for Laura's sake," Remington requested, then turned to her and filled her in. "Roselli has served two-fifths of his sentence and figuring good riddance to bad rubbish, he was pawned off on the Mexican authorities."

"Oh," Laura exclaimed, "Then I guess we'll need to prepare for another trial," she added in a tone she hoped sounded indifferent and professional. The truth was, she was a little embarrassed by her initial reaction. She was known for her calm, cool rationale in the face of bad news, while Remington was the one inclined towards overreacting. That she'd automatically assumed the worse, that she had felt the panic scratching at the edge of her mind, spoke loudly of how off kilter she was these days.

"There is more," Marcos warned. She crossed her arms and shook her head.

"Of course, there is."

"I had a proaísthima – a bad feeling," Marcos explained. "Two bottles of the wine you send us secured this Roselli's itinerary. It was but coincidence Alex and Mikos - or so we will vow should we be questioned - found they longed for a Mexican holiday." Remington grinned.

"I have fond memories myself of a trip to Acapulco around this time of the year some time back…

* * *

 _ **"As I remember, you did a fan dance in a bar for your boyfriend and his banker buddies."**_

* * *

"In fact, Laura has some rather… tantalizing memories of her own of the city." Her head snapped in his direction, and recrossing her arms, she glowered at him.

"Xenos!" Marcos barked his name. "This is no time to joke," he chastised. Remington sobered immediately. In more than three decades, he'd heard Marcos speak so sharply only a handful of times. That he had now, left Remington flicking his tongue over suddenly dry lips.

"Syngnómi," he apologized. "Please continue." Laura might have found herself amused by his immediate contrition had her own pulse not hitched up a notch at Marcos's tone.

"The transfer in Rome went as it should, but when they arrived in New York they had half a day's wait for the last part of their journey. Your cousins took turns throughout the night, watching for any movement from the room in which the man was staying with his guards. He is gone." The floor shifted beneath Laura's feet and that hard fought for cool exterior faltered as her hand fluttered upwards to her throat.

"Gone. What exactly does that mean – gone?" Remington demanded to know. He knew, of course, but needed to hear the words.

"Escaped," Marcos answered, succinctly.

"And the guards?" Laura wondered.

"One dead from a broken neck, the other bludgeoned as he slept. The medics say his survival is doubtful."

"My God," Remington murmured his horror.

"There is more, Xenos," Marcos advised, somberly. "The scoundrel relieved the guards of their weapons, identification and money." Laura nodded her head slowly, absorbing the news, her quick mind assessing the information provided.

"So he's armed and has at least some funding to tide him over until he goes underground," she concluded.

"The police?" Remington questioned.

"Mikos and Alex assure there is a manhunt underway," Marcos informed him. "Xenos, perhaps you and our Laura should consider coming home until this madman is found."

"We appreciate your concern—" Laura began, only for Remington to turn troubled blue eyes upon her before cutting her off.

"Laura, maybe we should—"

"It's out of the question," she insisted, firmly, cutting a hand through the air in emphasis. His jaw clenched, fear turning his temper short.

"Marcos, Laura and I need a word," he advised, as though Marcos hadn't heard the interchange. "I'll call you in the morning. Perhaps providence will be to our favor this time, and Roselli will be safely behind bars by night fall."

"Elena already prays for as much. Kratíste asfalés, o gios mou."

"We will. We'll speak soon." Disconnecting the line, Remington turned to face his wife.

"There's nothing to discuss," Laura declared, her chin taking a stubborn tilt upwards.

"Yes, there is," he countered firmly. "It's no longer just you and I to consider, Lau-ra," he elongated her name in his irritation. "There are the children to think about!"

"That's _exactly_ who I'm thinking of!" she contested, passionately. "Were you and I safe in France or Greece from Roselli? Was Thomas safe in England? Were you? We're not running unless it's a last resort! The girls have school. Holt has preschool. Then there's ballet, gymnastics and soccer, not to mention their home! There's no indication—"

Her words broke off as a male's raised voice penetrated the office door, Bernice speaking just as forcefully in return. The door was thrown open and it slammed into the wall behind it.

"I'll sue you for everything you're worth, Steele!"


	24. Chapter 20 - Cash Now

_**A/N: It has been a brutal nine days. Tomorrow we will lay to rest a young man who was a true blessing in this world. Distracted, careless driving 'steele's' precious lives from others.**_ **~ RSteele82**

* * *

Chapter 20: Cash Now

"I'll own this damned agency and _you_ before I'm done!" the robust, squat man snarled.

"Mr. Hawthorne," Laura greeted in a soothing tone, adeptly guiding him further into the office towards the chairs in front of Remington's desk. "Please come in. I'm sure whatever the problem is we can quickly resolve it to your complete satisfaction," she assured. "Bernice, can you bring in some refreshments, please?" Hawthorne spun away from her.

"I don't want any goddamned refreshments," he exploded again, barreling towards Remington with a finger pointed at his face, "I want your fucking head on a platter!" Remington lifted a brow, while straightening his tie, undisguised surprise written on his face.

"I believe my wife would much prefer I keep it on my shoulders," he quipped.

"Yes, _she would_ ," Laura agreed, as she took Hawthorne by his arm again, guiding him towards the seating area. "Bernice…" she hinted. With a nod Bernice left the office, closing the door behind her while Remington glowered briefly at the back of Laura's head, having understood she was referring to the conversation that had been interrupted. "Mr. Hawthorne, please, have a seat."

"I don't want to take a damned seat!" Hawthorne bellowed, yanking his arm away from her again, but sitting in one of the chairs even as he refused it. "I hired your agency to provide security for my businesses, little lady," he shook his finger up at her face now, then turned that finger towards Remington again as he leaned over the computer at his desk, "And you've _failed_ to provide it to me. The Compton branch has been robbed! Completely emptied out! And I'm on the hook for forty-two grand!"

Eric Hawthorne owned seven check cashing and payday loan businesses in metro Los Angeles. The ventures were profitable ones, allowing people without a bank account to cash various and sundry written instruments or to receive payday advances during times of economic hardship. Each of the Cash-Now branches were located in economically depressed parts of the city where clientele were unconcerned with the absurd interest rates… and most individuals were focused on the here and now, rather than long term costs associated with the payday advances.

"I don't see any indication the security system has been breached," Remington noted, exchanging a glance with Laura.

"Mr. Hawthorne, can you tell us what happened?" she requested.

"Your system didn't work and my damned store was taken for everything, that's what happened!" he repeated the accusation.

" _When_ was the store robbed?" Laura pressed, as she sat down before the man on the corner of the coffee table.

"An hour-and-a-half ago, in the middle of broad daylight. What kind of a crackpot operation are you run—"

"During business hours?" Remington stepped in before the man could finish the insult. "Was the security system engaged at the time?" He asked, as he took a seat on the couch to their client's right. Hawthorne scowled at him.

"Of course not," he answered, belligerently, "We make our money off the customers. How are they supposed to get into the store if it's armed?!" His tone suggested the detective duo were mentally lacking, making Laura consciously resist the urge to roll her eyes.

"And the surveillance cameras? Were they on?" Remington continued.

"What do you think I am? Stupid?" Hawthorne balked at the question. "Of course they were on, not that the video will do a damned bit of good!" Laura's brows drew together and she tilted her head slightly.

"Why is that?"

"They were wearing a ski mask, sunglasses, hats and gloves. Can't tell a damned thing about them!"

"Well, I don't see how our system is to be blame," Laura reasoned. "The cameras worked and the system was disarmed. There's nothing faulty in that."

"Nevertheless, I'd like to have a look at it," Remington announced. "We might want to consider installing a discrete panic button."

"I don't want a damned panic button, I want guards!" Hawthorne exclaimed. "I'll be damned lucky if Selena doesn't up and quit over this. It messed with her head good, blubbering on and on about her house. Cops couldn't get a damned thing out of the broad except there was two of them." Laura's curiosity was piqued.

"What about her house?"

"How the hell should I know what was going on in the broad's head?" the man asked, exasperated. "She wasn't making a damned bit of sense. For all I know, she was worried she left the oven on. In the meantime, every penny in the place is gone and the cops have nothing to go on!"

"You said 'they wore'," Laura noted, "How many were there?"

"Two on the video. Can't say if there were more outside," Hawthorne replied, shifting irritably in his chair.

"And – Selena, wasn't it?" Remington stepped in, "Was she able to provide—"

"I took you for a smart man, Mr. Steele," Hawthorne interrupted, gaining his feet as his voice rose, "Or maybe it's a hearing problem since I just told—"

" _Mr. Hawthorne,"_ Laura addressed in an authoritative tone, enunciating each syllable of his name as she stood as well. It was one thing to be upset, quite another to be insulting. "Perhaps Mr. Steele and I should have a look at the security tape and speak with Selena ourselves," she smiled sweetly at him, "That is presuming you wish for us to find out who did this and try to recover your losses for you."

"What the hell do you think I'm here for?!"

* * *

"You're remarkable, Laura," Remington broke the silence that had lingered between them since they'd gotten in her Explorer to begin the drive to Compton. They'd both stubbornly planted their feet on the Roselli matter and the tension between them was as palpable as the silence was thick. At this point, he'd prefer they'd have a real go at it rather the only sound within the confines of the car coming from the drone of traffic outside and the occasional blaring of a horn. "Hawthorne arrived threatening a lawsuit, and left having hired us to find these culprits."

Laura sat in the driver's seat, elbow propped on the window ledge of the door and resting the side of her head in her hand, staring at the traffic in front of her while she drove. Compton. Not one of their normal haunts, that was for sure. Crime rate here was astronomical, where an estimated one out of twenty-twenty seven people would become the victim of a robbery or of violent crime and the risk of becoming the victim of a property crime was even greater Gang presence was high in the area, with various factions of the notorious Crips and rival Bloods only a drop in the bucket when one considered the other dozens of gangs. Gang warfare and initiation rites alone took the lives of handfuls of youth each year, not to mention the innocent bystanders who were killed. In many ways, Compton was deceptive with its tree lined streets and well-kept neighborhoods, but all one had to do was to take a closer look at the homes to know crime lived and flourished in the area, with the bar covered windows and doors, and chain link fences that some of the more hopeful believed might keep crime away. The economically depressed area was exactly the kind of community Hawthorne's Cash Now businesses operated in, not caring if their exorbitant fees only perpetuated further hardship on already financially distressed individuals and families.

Compton was also Roselli's last stop in Los Angeles after he'd kidnapped Laura. Not that she remembered the brief time they'd spent there, given she'd been bound, unconscious and stowed in the backseat of Roselli's car at the time. No, she'd only learned of their visit after she'd managed to escape the madman with Murphy and Remington's help. It was what she associated with Compton that brought back the feelings of terror and helplessness that had surrounded her during those days: it wasn't long after they departed the place when Roselli had begun regularly dosing her with a mixture of drugs, including the hallucination triggering horse tranquilizer, ketamine, the drug taking her on a roller coaster ride straight through hell. Eight years had passed and she remained adverse to taking anything more potent than an aspirin.

"Laura?... Lau-ra." Remington's voice pierced her reverie and with a pair of a blink of her eyes, she focused on him.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" she asked, dropping her arm from the sill and sitting up straight to glance in his direction.

"I said—" he began, then changed his mind. "Never mind what I said. I think you and I need to address the elephant in the room, so to speak, don't you?"

"There's nothing to address," she dismissed.

"I beg to differ," he countered, offended by her high-handedness. "The man's a buggering lunatic and on the loose!"

"We have no reason to believe he's coming here," she pointed out, logically, as she turned right at an intersection.

"You mean other than the last two times that he did, not to mention his bloody obsession with you, me _and_ Father, don't you?" he shot back. "We put him in prison, Laura. Not only that, but through our efforts _and_ testimony, he's virtually guaranteed to live out his remaining days behind bars should he be apprehended. On the other hand, without our testimony…" He left her to finish the thought and watched her fingers flex against the steering wheel when she quickly completed it.

"Which means it makes sense he'd go anywhere but here," she refuted. "Think about it. He's traveled enough that he could go underground any number of places and live out his life as a free man. If he were to come after us, he risks getting caught and spending the rest of his life exactly as you said. Why would he do that?"

"The man's bloody insane, Laura, does he need another reason?" He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead. "Wasn't it you who once said about the man…"

* * *

" _ **We don't sit back and wait for whatever is thrown at us next. We plan, we act, we go on the offensive."**_

* * *

"Yes, I did," she conceded, then stipulated, "But we knew he was waiting for his opportunity."

"That's my very point!" he interjected. "We had the advantage of knowing he'd come at us and still were unable to defend ourselves when the time came, even on Oia where half the bloody island is family or friends, Laura! Should he go after the children to get to us…" He drew a hand over his mouth, unable to finish the statement, "Then there's Father." Her eyes flickered to him then back to the road.

He'd never completely forgiven himself for not having kept her safe from Roselli – not that it was his job to do so, but you'd never be able to convince him of that. Even after nearly giving his life for her and Livvie, it was all that she had suffered at Roselli's hands that haunted him. Now, compared to then, that protective instinct of his had grown exponentially, as the years had seen to it that he had far, far more to lose.

"Running isn't the answer, Remington," she told him, softly, then offered him a breadcrumb of solace, "Not yet at least." His eyes slanted to her then away. "We can't turn our lives – especially the children's lives - upside down on an 'if'," she continued in a reasonable tone. "You and I, we've worked very hard to insure Sophie, Livvie and Holt have what you and I – especially yourself – should have had as children: A life of stability, consistency, _security_. We can't let Roselli steal that from them, not unless it's our last resort. Until we have some indication, _some proof_ , that he's heading our way, we need to be cautious but for their sake, we can't panic."

"And should it be? Our last resort?" Pulling the Explorer into a curbside parking space near Cash Now, she turned off the engine then lay a gentle hand on his arm.

"Then we do whatever it takes to keep them safe," she vowed, "I tell you what, I'll call Murph. If I know him as well as I believe I do, he'll still have his file on Roselli. Combined with what we uncovered during our own investigation, maybe he'll be able to figure out where Roselli will go underground if he isn't caught." He found some modicum of comfort in the offer. Next to themselves, there was no one with more knowledge of Roselli than Murphy Michaels… and no one who knew better how much could be at stake should Roselli set his sites on them again.

"And in the meantime?"

"We go about our lives as normal, although with a little more caution." She blew out a small puff of frustrated air in answer to the concession she was about to offer. "Let's find out from Monroe if Tank and Dozer are available. If so, we make sure one of them is with children whenever we aren't." This time it was he who heaved a sigh. Tank and Dozer had guarded Laura, Sophie, Livvie, Thomas and Catherine when Gabriel Castoro was intent on eliminating not only the Steele's but his own daughter as well. He nodded his head slowly. It was a huge sacrifice for Laura to even allow that much. He'd take other steps on his own to guarantee they'd be prepared, should the need arrive – not that he'd be telling Laura that, elsewise he'd likely become the recipient of a blistering lecture on fixating on what might never come to pass. But if it should? He wanted to know they could pack up with only a moment's notice and disappear into the wind.

Leaning in, he brushed his lips over her cheek.

"Thank you."

She nodded a single, definitive nod, then reached for the door handle. Together, with his hand at the small of her back, they stepped into Cash Now, Compton branch. The storefront hadn't improved even a smidgen since Remington had conducted his initial walk through, then signed off on the installed system. The floors were still a checkered, putrid green and dirty looking white asphalt tile. The walls were a shade of gray-green that was reminiscent of the wall color in numerous movies where at least part of the story took part inside a prison. The plexiglass window was still just as marred with scratches and the orange Formica topped wood counter was still just as chipped, dented and ugly as ever.

One would think given the amount of cash Hawthorne made off this storefront alone that the man might wish to make the place more inviting and less… yech. But, then again, why would he? The only color the people who walked into this business were concerned with was green of the paper variety.

Familiar with layout of the temporarily closed business, Remington guided Laura towards a door at the far right of the room, then depressed the buzzer. The answering click indicated the door had been unlatched remotely, and he and Laura stepped into a hallway that led to an office and the room where the security monitors had been installed.

"I have the tapes stopped right before they walk in," Hawthorne informed them, before hitting play on one of the VCR's.

Remington and Laura leaned in, watching as two people dressed all in black – clothing, hoods, gloves and even sunglasses – stepped into the range of the camera. They made mental notes of the two perpetrators: One tall, broad, some might even describe as 'chunky'; the second shorter and very slim. Hawthorne hadn't been incorrect in his assessment: It was impossible to discern a single distinguishing feature of either individual. They watched at the scene played out: The robbers approached the plexiglass window, the look on the clerk's face indicating something had been said, a piece of paper was passed through the hole in the plexiglass window, the young woman clearly upset, then quickly gathering money from the till before disappearing into the back and reemerging, opening the private door and tossing the bag out, the two dark-garbed figured grabbing the bag and running out the front door. The entire scene played out in under two minutes, and the film provided nothing more than an opportunity to view the robbery first hand. Further, it was clear the scene of the crime, so to speak, would offer up no clue as to the robbers' identities.

"I assume the police have the note Selena was handed?" Laura asked. Hawthorne shrugged.

"I guess. Like I said, the broad was completely useless. I sent her home," he answered impatiently then turned to Remington with a conspiratorial look. "They're not like men, you know. Broads. Prone to hysterics. A man can only take so much of all the crying and carrying on. You know how it is." Remington tugged at an earlobe. He'd learned this lesson a few times over the years: Agree to build common ground with the client and he'd have Laura harping in his ear about encouraging such misogynistic behavior; disagree and risk her being put out that he hadn't schmoozed the man. A wise man would go with the latter at the moment, but her comment in the office earlier had pricked. So, he grinned at the man, lifted his brows and chuckled, as though amused.

"They certainly have their moods." Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Laura's back straighten and her lips clamp shut. The small jab had found its mark. Touché.

"We'll need her address," she declared, tightly.

"It's in the office," Hawthorne replied, edging himself between the couple and exiting the monitor room. Laura wheeled around and crossing her arms, laid narrowed eyes upon her husband.

"Must you encourage the man?" she hissed.

"Just didn't want to undermine your previous efforts to put the Agency back into good standing with the man, Laura," he prevaricated, the purse of his lips dismissing any notion he was sincere.

"Well, stop," she ordered.

"She isn't far from here," Hawthorne announced as he reappeared. He nodded his head toward the east. "Take a right three blocks down, then a left in five."

"Appreciate it," Remington thanked the man with an extended hand. "Shall we?" he cocked his head towards the exit while looking at Laura.

"Good luck getting anything out of her," Hawthorne offered at their backs as they departed.

* * *

The door of the small, rundown bungalow swung open, and a tall, slim, caramel skinned woman with reddened eyes peeked out.

"Selena? Laura and Remington Steele from Remington Steele Investigations," Laura announced, holding up her credentials as Remington did the same from a step behind her. "Mr. Hawthorne gave us your address. We're investigating the robbery this morning at Cash Now." At mention of the morning events, the woman's eyes welled and she craned her head to look around them towards the street before hustling them inside then locking the door firmly once they'd entered. With a wave of her hand, she indicated they should follow.

"I already told the police everything I know," she informed them, as she turned into the first room on the right in a short hallway off the small living room. The modest bedroom could barely contain the full size bed, small dresser and single nightstand. Laura's eyes immediately zoomed in on the open suitcase lying on that bed. Was the woman running? Or, her more suspicious nature questioned, was Selena an accomplice preparing to collect her share of the take and disappear?

"Would you mind sharing with us what you told the police?" Laura requested.

"I went to work at eight-thirty as I always do. I opened at nine."

"Did you see anyone acting suspicious when you arrived? Anyone that seemed out of place?" Remington questioned. Selena remained quiet as gathered more clothes from the dresser. When she turned around, she took the time to look over Remington and Laura from head-to-toe, and with a discerning eye quickly labeled them: Monied. She snorted and shook her head.

"Compton is a world away from where you come from, Mr. Steele. You keep your head down, your eyes at your back and your ears alert."

"Mmm, I know what you mean," Remington commiserated aloud. "I spent most of my youth living alone on the streets of the London slums, just trying to survive. Seeing too much will see you dead." Selena did a double take, then standing erect searched his face and eyes. Growing up on the streets of Compton and having trusted the wrong person one time too many, she sized him up. She nodded curtly as she bent back over to put the clothing in her bag.

"Yes."

"What is it you saw that has you preparing to go on the run?" Her back stiffened as she zipped close the suitcase.

"I already told the police, I saw nothing," she answered, shortly, yanking the bag off the bed and carrying it to the hallway, where she dropped it down next to the door. Opening a closet, she yanked out another small suitcase and a duffel bag, then continued down the hall to the next room on the right where she lay the suitcase on top of a long, narrow dresser. "Not before I arrived at work and not when they—" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "And not when they were there."

"When they spoke to you," Laura encouraged, "You'd be able to identify their gender, maybe even a distinctive way they spoke or an accent." Remington took in the bedroom that was slightly smaller than the one before it. The room was… spartan… at best, with an old, dinged up bunk bed and one modest, three drawer dresser. The bedding confirmed two little girls shared the room.

"Only one talked. The short one was like a lookout. The tall one was the leader. Definitely a man, but no more of an accent than me."

"Our girls are enamored with princesses, as well," Remington interjected casually. "How many children do you have?" Selena cast suspicious eyes in his direction.

"Three." Nothing more offered, as she opened drawers and pulled out a handful of panties then socks and lay them in the suitcase before pulling open the next drawer.

"What did he say to you?" Laura asked, she and Remington executing a well-practiced dance. She wasn't quite sure, yet, what he was fishing for, but she trusted his instincts.

"To give him the money," Selena offered.

"It would seem at least one is around the age of our daughters. They're six and seven," Remington stepped in to comment. Selena dropped several shirts into the suitcase as lifted her head, the look in her eyes reminding Laura of an animal that catches the scent of a potential foe.

"Six, five and two," the young woman answered, shortly.

"On the video we saw the taller of the two hand you a piece of paper," Laura shared, keeping her face carefully blank when she observed the tremor in Selena's hands. A sidelong glance at Remington confirmed he'd seen it as well. "Was it a note?"

"Yes," Selena answered shortly, grabbing a doll and stuffed bear from the bottom bunk and another doll off the top then laying them on top of the contents of the suitcase.

"Would you mind sharing what the note said?" Laura requested.

"To give him the money," Selena answered, rolling up a small blanket from the bottom bunk. Adding it to the rest of the packed items, she closed the suitcase, and left the room, sitting the case next to the door. Across the hall she entered another room. Frowning, Laura trailed after her.

"Well, that doesn't make much sense. He'd already told you they were there for the money," Laura observed as she and Remington stepped into the room behind the woman. It was another sparse room with a brown, wood crib and dilapidated three-drawer dresser.

"Your husband must be concerned given events of the morning," Remington commented.

"I'm not married," Selena refuted, tossing the duffel bag on top of the dresser then opening the top drawer. He hummed in answer.

"The tan line on your ring finger would suggest otherwise," he replied with a quick, casual indication of her left hand. Looking down at her hand, she glanced at the mentioned finger, then rubbed it against her jeans, as though trying to rid her finger of the mark. She sighed, heavily, as she reached into the drawer, removing its contents of small underwear and training pants and shoving them in the bag.

"Jamal isn't the man I married, hasn't been for a long time," she provided in a regretful tone. "He's serving one-to-three in Lancaster for possession and intent to sell."

"Why would the man give you a note asking you for the money?" Laura pursued. That same tremor shook her hands again.

"You'd have to ask him," she retorted.

"Gangs?" Remington speculated, redirecting Selena's focus.

"Booze and pot then pills and smack. He started running drugs for the Five Deuce. He hid it from me for a long time then broke every promise we ever made to one another: No drinking, no drugs, no gangs…" She fell silent as she emptied the second drawer, "That he'd never raise a hand against me or our children." She shook her head as she packed the tiny articles of clothing into the bag.

"Selena, it wasn't a note, was it?" Laura addressed head on. "What did the man give you?" Clamping her mouth shut and shaking her head, Selena emptied the bottom drawer into the duffel then grabbed the comforter and a stuffed rabbit out of the crib. Not bothering to zip the bag, she shoved past Laura and Remington and moved down the short hallway to the final door. In the tidy if dated bathroom, she began emptying medicine cabinet and items scattered over the counter top into the bag.

"Then I guess we'll have to get it from the police," Laura told Remington as they again followed. His eyes narrowed on the woman.

"She didn't give it to them," he assessed. Laura looked at him surprised, while Selena braced her hands against the counter in response to the accusation.

"How do you know?" Laura challenged.

"Hawthorne said you were hysterical, barely able to speak, that you kept repeating my house," Remington addressed Selena's profile. Laura's eyes widened slightly as she caught on to her partner's thought process.

"And whatever it is that he gave you is the cause," she speculated.

"Mmm," Remington hummed the confirmation, "Just as it's the reason for your hasty departure, isn't it?" With great resolve and keeping her silence, Selena shoved the rest of the bathroom's contents into the bag and zipping it shut, pushed past them again.

"Selena, if they threatened you, if you need somewhere safe to go, we can help you," Laura informed her retreating back. The other woman's only response was a snort of disbelief.

"My wife and I own a foundation to help women in crisis and their families," Remington shared, understanding the road Laura's thoughts had traveled.

"We can have you and your children in a nice house, in a decent neighborhood with good schools for your girls, by nightfall," Laura promised. Selena spun to face them.

"Why? Why would you do this?" she demanded to know.

"Because we once knew a woman who had no where to go, and in the end she lost her life," Laura confided, quietly. "If these people threatened you…" She allowed Selena to come to her own conclusions. Remington spied the flicker of hope in the young woman's eyes, and pounced.

"You'd receive the same services of the other women we aid," he expounded. "A house cost free for a year, assistance finding employment that suits you – certainly nothing of the likes of Cash Now."

"One of the shelters we work with would arrange free childcare when you are at work," Laura continued, "And if you're interested in returning to school, financial assistance and childcare for that as well."

"And, if after a year you find the community and home to your liking, we will work with you to purchase the house," Remington finished with the icing on the cake. Selena sat down heavily on the pretty but worn sofa. "I only need to make a phone call," he finished.

"I don't know who they were," she whispered.

"That's our job," Laura assured, sitting down next to her and taking her hand. "All we need to know what it was that they gave you that scared you to the point you're ready to run."

"How do I know you aren't just playing me? That you won't just get what you want out of me, then disappear?" Laura and Remington exchanged looks, then Laura opened her purse, pulled out her wallet, and fished out a business card.

"Leona Farrell is the director of Safe Harbor, a domestic abuse shelter in LA. Give her a call," Laura suggested, handing her the business card.

Selena looked from one to the other, doubt and hope warring on her face. Abruptly, she stood and crossed the room to the condensed kitchen, where she picked up handset from the phone hanging on the wall.

"I left my cellular phone in the truck," he informed Laura. "Do you, by chance, have yours?" She frowned at him as she snapped open her purse again.

"All this technology you're so enthused about will hardly be effective if you don't have it when you need it," she admonished, as she handed him hers.

"It's so bulky," he complained. "Plays havoc with the lines of my suit."

"You once said the same about cash…"

* * *

" _ **If you'd carry more cash, we wouldn't have to find out."**_

" _ **I never carry cash. Too bulky."**_

* * *

"And look where that got us," she finished. Living on the streets without a dime to their name – That's where it had gotten them.

"Mmm, I see your point."

"Good. Because if all the rest of the members of the Agency have to have their phone on them at all times, so does the _Boss,"_ she emphasized. He grunted, then held up a finger when Lina answered the phone.

"Lina, it's me," Remington greeted. In the office at Clarissa's Closet, Lina looked down at her cellphone. Like the staff at the Agency, Jacoby and Lina had also been presented with cell phones so they could be reached in the case of an emergency.

"Xen?" she questioned. "Why are you calling me on Laura's phone. Has something happened?"

"No, no, we're fine. Just left mine in the car. Lina—" Lina snorted a laugh cutting him off.

"Should I recall accurately, it was you who said we must have our phones at all times. Was it not?" He scowled at the second admonishment in as many minutes.

"Laura's already given me an earful, no need for you to do so as well," he groused. "Are you at the office?"

"Yes, why?" she wondered.

"What properties do we have open at the moment?" She lifted a pair of curious brows, but sorted through several files on the corner of her desk until she found the one she was looking for.

"We have the two bedroom—"

"We'll need three to four," Remington supplied. She thumbed through the pages in the file.

"We have the four bedroom on Hayford in Norwalk—"

"Too close to where she now is," he dismissed. Anything further northeast?" She turned through more pages and removed two sheets of paper from the file.

"The four bedroom on Whirlaway in Chino Hills, and the three bedroom on Avalon in Alta Loma." Remington pursed his lips as he mentally reviewed each of the residences. The house in Chino Hills sported a larger yard, and the added bonus of a swing set already installed. Her two oldest might be like Livvie and Sophie who preferred to sleep in the same bedroom together, but if they might prefer a bit of space to call their own, four bedrooms would be the perfect number.

"The house in Chino Hills, I think."

"Xen, is someone in trouble?"

"Yes, she is. I'll explain it all when we get there. You and Jacoby will have to work late, I'm afraid," he apologized.

"It is what we do," she dismissed.

"With a little luck we'll be there shortly. Bye-bye." He disconnected the call at the same time Selena hung up the phone in the kitchen. Laura stood up to place herself on a more level plane with the other two.

"She said you've helped a lot of women and I should trust you," Selena announced before asked. Her eyes slanted in the direction of the hallway as she tried to reach a decision.

"I just spoke with my sister, Lina, who runs the foundation for us," Remington announced, hoping to sway her. "We've a fully furnished four bedroom home in Chino Hills ready and waiting. She will help get your family settled in, then work with you on employment, school registration and daycare, and will see to it that the house is stocked with the food, clothing and sundries that you need. Our staff attorney will help you with your legal matters, free of charge."

Selena exhaled heavily. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, if it weren't too good to be true, and she knew it. Her children would not only be safe, but far away by the time their father was released from prison. That they might finally be able to leave Compton, its crime and violence behind? With a silent nod of her head, she squared her shoulders. Maybe this time she'd trust the right person. She disappeared into her room and when she reemerged, with shaking hands she handed Laura the paper the robber had given her.

"He said 'If you love your kids, you'll keep your mouth shut"' and handed me this." Her eyes welled then overflowed, as her shoulders heaved. "It's a picture of my house! They know where I live! where my babies live…"


	25. Chapter 21: Circle the Wagons

Chapter 21: Circle the Wagons

Laura lifted her eyes heavenward when she heard the french door across the terrace open and close behind her. She didn't need to look back over her shoulder to know who it was. She'd anticipated his arrival.

Just as she'd expected the car that had followed her and the girls from ballet class to soccer practice then home.

Just as she'd predicted she'd find either Tank or Dozer – whichever of them wasn't driving the sedan tailing them – at the house when they got home.

She may have convinced Remington it wasn't time to go on the lam, but experience had taught her it was useless to attempt to quell his protective nature all together. And she wouldn't necessarily want to, if she could. As far as she was concerned, one of his finest attributes was his unabashed commitment to and love for his family. Still, if she didn't keep those tendencies within reason, he'd drive her stark, raving mad.

Under the guise of stretching – and to make the man squirm a bit -she bent over and touched her palms to the pavers, giving him an unfettered view of her backside while providing her with a bird's eye view of his running shoes.

"Fancy meeting you here," she greeted him. Behind her, he gave her backside a wolfish grin. If one were going to be forced to run, the sight of those legs bared from ankle to just where the curve of her bottom began was at least some small reward for his efforts.

"Keep that up, love, and the only exercise we'll be getting is of the indoor variety," he leered. With a roll of her eyes, she stood up and turned to face him.

"Don't get your hopes up, big guy," she warned, drawing a finger up his chest then tapping his chin with her fingertip. "It seems we won't have much privacy in the near future," she added ruefully, with a pointed look towards the house.

"We agreed—" he began, then watched as Laura abruptly took off down the staircase leading to the beach at a fair clip. He sprinted after her.

"We _agreed_ ," she called back over her shoulder at him, "On Tank or Dozer being with the children when we weren't. We _didn't_ agree they'd tail me all over LA when I was with the girls or that they'd be at the house when children were with us."

"And once we're finished with our run, they'll go home," he responded in a tone that suggested she was being irrational. With a shake of her head, she began to run.

"Which brings up another point: Why this sudden interest in running?" she asked, as she set a strong but steady pace. With a grunt of disapproval, he set his stride in time with hers. Last evening she'd taken it easy on him. Clearly she'd no intention of being as benevolent on this evening.

"There's nothing quite like running to—"

"Firm up the old love handles?" she ventured. His mouth fell open, the shot at his vanity finding its mark. "Two nights in a row," she continued before he could formulate a response. "That's more than you've run with me in the last year. Last night, I understood," she lectured, "I've been… distracted. But tonight? I don't need a guard, Mr. Steele, be it Tank, Dozer _or you._ " He winced. He'd known she'd see right through him, of course, but had hoped she'd humor him for a while – a week or two… or until Roselli was safely back behind bars. Of course, this was Laura.

"Guard you? At the risk of insinuating you are anything less than fully capable of taking care of yourself?" he scoffed. "I simply enjoyed our run yesterday so much that I've been considered taking up the… er… sport." Turning her face towards the water, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. Yesterday, the man had acted like he was dying after their short, lazy run. Even now, they'd barely made it more than length of two football fields and he was breathing harshly. But, if that was the way he wished to play this, she knew exactly how to remind him – for the umpteenth time in their relationship, nonetheless – that she did not like games.

"Is that so?" The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was a trap, he knew it, and he could either admit he was, indeed, playing guard or walk right into it. A smart man would do the former, he acknowledged even as he said…

"Positively invigorating, really gets those endorphins going." She smiled wide.

"Great, then I'll sign us both up for the half marathon next month," she deadpanned. He heard her soft snort of amusement when he stumbled at the announcement. _Bloody hell._ But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Sounds delightful."

Thus, for the foreseeable future, the man who'd always staunchly believed the only good reason to run was because one was being chased would be running voluntarily… 'for enjoyment.'

* * *

"Mommy, are we going away?" Sophie asked as Laura leaned in to kiss her goodnight. The question gave her pause, and rather than bussing her on the cheek, she found herself sitting back down on the bed as Livvie eyed her from her bed with open curiosity. She tilted her head to the side and lifted her brows.

"What would make you ask that?"

"When Mr. Tank and Mr. Dozer were here before, we went away," Sophie answered with the simple logic of childhood. Laura found herself irritated with Remington. After prayers, song and story time, he'd taken Holt off to tuck him into his bed in his room and had left her to be blindsided. They were raising three intelligent, observant children - _of course_ , they would have questions. She swiveled her head to look at Livvie who was nodding her head in emphatic agreement with her sister.

"The only place we are planning on going, _right now_ , is to Vail for Christmas like we always do," she answered, honestly. Instead of being relieved by the information, Sophie withdrew.

"Sophie thinks the mean man is coming to get her," Livvie announced. Laura blinked, hard, looking from Sophie to Livvie then back to Sophie again and a rock settled in the pit of her stomach. _Damn, Roselli._ She stroked a hand over Sophie's hair.

"Oh, Soph, the mean man _is not_ coming to get you," she vowed. "He is in jail and will be there for a very, _very_ long time. He'll never hurt you again. I promise." She tapped Sophie on the tip of her nose, trying to lighten the mood. "And I never break my promises, do I?" Sophie considered the question at length, searching for any instances where her mother had broken a promise, then shook her head.

"No."

"Your Da and I are just…" she chose words that wouldn't be a falsehood "…working a difficult case and Tank and Dozer are helping us keep an eye out for the person we are looking for." An idea came to her, one that might help Sophie forget her worries while making the girls feel they had some control in their lives. She tapped her finger against her lips as though thinking. "As a matter of fact, how would the two of you feel about helping us?" In an affect much like Laura, Livvie tipped her head to the side as her brows furrowed.

"But we're just little."

"Well, yes, you are little – at least in comparison to Da and I. _But,_ " she emphasized, looking for her youngest daughter to her oldest, "You're very smart _and_ are very observant."

"What's ob-… Obvervant?" Livvie asked.

"Ob-ser-vant," Laura sounded out. "It means you pay close attention and sometimes see things other people miss." The raven-haired girl nodded her head eagerly.

"We are ob-, observant!" Livvie declared triumphantly.

"Yeah!" Sophie agreed, emphatically, beginning to get into the spirit of things.

"So, what Da and I need you to do is this: If Da or I aren't with you and you see a strange man – whether it's here at the house, at school or even your activities - you tell Tank or Dozer. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yeah!" the response came in chorus.

"I thought you could. Now, close your eyes and get some sleep. You have school tomorrow," Laura reminded brightly, leaning down and bussing Sophie on the cheek. "Have good dreams, sweet girl. "Standing she walked towards Livvie's bed.

"You didn't say goodnight to Prince Charming," Sophie reminded. Laura doubled back.

"Well, I can't forget to do that, now can I?" She gave the cat a quick scratch behind his ears where he lay at Sophie's feet blinking up at her. Thoroughly unimpressed by the human's ministrations, Charming ducked away from her touch and curled up into a tight ball, and closing his eyes, dismissed her. She snorted her amusement. The cat had two true loves in his life, she mused as she walked to Olivia's bed: Sophie and any of Remington's clothes. Leaning down she bussed Livvie's cheek. "Sweet dreams, Livvie Bee."

Closing the door to Livvie's room until it remained opened only a crack, she turned automatically towards Holt's room, meeting Remington at the doorway.

"Off to the land of nod," he noted, rather enjoying the crestfallen look on Laura's face. There was something oh so attractive in the way she valued the bedtime rituals with their children. "I promised you'd tuck him in before you went to bed," he added, wrapping an arm around her waist and redirecting her the opposite way towards the stairs. "I'd like to speak with you." She cast a curious look upon him.

"Alright," she drew out the word.

"I've considered suggesting to Father and Catherine it would be best for them to return to England until we're certain there's no immediate threat from Roselli."

"Do they know?" He gave a small shake of his head.

"Not yet. I was hoping you might join me when I tell them." Her eyes narrowed slightly catching his hesitation.

"Of course, I will," she replied, in a tone that suggested it should have been a foregone conclusion. That he stopped to lean his hip against the baluster at the stairs and drew his hand across his mouth confirmed he was anxious about whatever it was he had in mind.

"I don't think I could—" He stumbled, then swallowing hard and moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, tried again. "I haven't had enough time with him, Laura," he shared gruffly. "I can't keep him safe in England."

She took in the fear in his eyes, the strain around them and his distressed mannerisms. There were times she had to tread a fine line when it came to her Mr. Steele, and this was one of them. She neither wanted to encourage his tendency to panic at times like these nor did she wish to point out that his presence was no guarantee harm wouldn't come to someone he loved – hadn't they learned that much with Anna? Yet, at the same time, it he didn't calm down and gain some perspective very shortly, experience had taught her disaster would soon ensue as he took measures to control the uncontrollable. Life with Remington Steele meant picking your battles, and on this one she could concede.

"Well," she drew out the word while stepping close and drawing a hand through his hair, "We have a guest room for a reason." He nodded rapidly, his relief evident first in his eyes and then in the way he gathered her in his arms and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"Thank you," he whispered. She patted a hand against his chest, then stepped out of the frame of his arms.

"Shall we?" she asked with a tip of her head to the lower floor where Catherine and Thomas waited, having already said goodnight to the children before their bedtime routines began.

"Let's."

They found Catherine and Thomas in the family room, preparing to depart as was their habit when the children went off to bed, allowing Remington and Laura a bit of privacy for the remainder of the evening.

"A lovely evening as always," Catherine complimented. "We do so enjoy our time with you and the children."

"As do we with yourself and Father," Remington returned. "Before you leave, Laura and I would like a moment of your time, if you don't mind." The request came as no surprise to Thomas, as he and Catherine were well familiar with Tank and Dozer… and their purpose.

"What wrong, son?" Thomas inquired, politely assisting Catherine as she sat back down on the couch, then joined her. Remington and Laura sat down on the loveseat catty corner from them.

"Marcos called me at the office today. Roselli was released from prison and turned over to the Mexican Federales for transport to Mexico where he is to be next tried."

"Already?" Thomas queried, shocked. "If memory serves he was given twenty years and it hasn't even been half that time."

"Eight, eight years is all he served, prison overcrowding, parole guidelines, and all that," Remington explained, not bothering to hide his derision. Leaning forward, he rubbed his hands over his face, then with elbows still braced to knees, held his hands out, palms up, and looked at his father. "He escaped while awaiting the connecting flight in New York," he informed the other couple. Catherine's hand fluttered upward in alarm to rest at the base of her neck. Reaching out, Thomas took her other hand in his then patted it, comfortingly.

"Which explains the presence of Dozer and Tank here this evening," Thomas concluded. "Is it off to the woods again, then?"

"No, it's not," Laura interjected firmly, reaching for Remington's hand and giving it a squeeze. What she said next was a reminder to him, as much as it was in answer to Thomas's question. "We're going to be cautious. That's all."

"We'd like you to stay here, with us, at least until we have some assurance Roselli isn't planning to pick up where he left off," Remington finished. Catherine and Thomas exchanged a look.

"We appreciate the offer, but I'm sure we'll be perfectly safe at the Rossmore," Thomas declined. "It's a secure building and given we're on the top floor, I'm certain—"

"It's also the very apartment Laura was abducted from and the only place Laura and I own, other than the Agency, that Roselli associates with us," Remington cut in, to argue. "It's a fine building, on that we can agree, but a doorman is not going to stop Roselli from getting in if he wishes."

"Son, try to understand," Thomas appealed. "Catherine and I lived a year in hiding, I even feigned my own death because of the man's lunacy. Most importantly, I lost nearly a year-and-a-half of time I could have spent with my son. He's stolen too much from me already. I'll not allow him to force me to make any further sacrifices, even if it is simply a place where I temporarily lay my head down to rest of a night." Catherine nodded her agreement.

"I never realized you'd find staying with us so abhorrent as to be considered a sacrifice ," Remington commented, more than a bit insulted. He wasn't sure what he'd envisioned in his mind: His father and Catherine bestowing him with gratitude? The pair of them overjoyed that they'd be under the same room as their grandchildren for an indefinite period of time? Hell, he'd have settled for a simple acceptance.

"That is not at all what I meant, Remington," Thomas corrected.

"It is not that we don't' treasure the time spent with you and the children, for you know how very much we do," Catherine added, "It's that it is a choice not made but imposed."

"We understand," Laura quietly assured. "I can't say I'm exactly thrilled about recent changes myself." The twitch of Remington's jaw didn't escape her.

"Then, at the very least, tomorrow we'll be upgrading the locks on the door and installing a security system in the flat," Remington snapped. Then as if recalling suddenly to whom he was speaking, qualified, "If, that is, I'm not overstepping my bounds." His tone had been more respectful, but no less frigid, making Thomas blanch noticeably. He and Remington hadn't shared a harsh word between them since his emotionally tumultuous return from the dead and the subsequent revelation that he was, in fact, Remington's father.

"It's your home to—"

"I've phone calls to make then," Remington interrupted, abruptly standing and stalking from the room. Catherine and Thomas watched as he snatched the portable phone off the bar, then stormed outside to the terrace.

"I'm sorry," Laura sighed. "The news has been… disconcerting… for him."

"I never meant for him to assume I wouldn't relish more time with him," Thomas worried. "I'd give all I have to get back just a piece of the time we lost."

"I know," Laura assured, looking towards the French doors, "As does he." She returned her attention to the couple. "The idea of something happening to us…" she held out a hand towards the couple "…to you…" she blew out another breathe, a frustrated one this time "He's not being reasonable." Thomas stood and offered his hand to Catherine.

"I think it would be best if we take our leave now," he informed her. "Catherine and I will see ourselves out." Laura pecked Thomas on the cheek and gave Catherine a hug.

She watched the couple until they disappeared from view then turned, and crossing her arms over her body, stared towards the terrace. Go to him and try to calm him with a gentle touch and soft reassurances or make it clear in her absence that his fears were no justification for his behavior?

She stood there long after she registered in the back of her mind the sound of the front door opening, then closing. Finally, when she did move, she strode out of the family room towards her office…


	26. Chapter 22 - Weighing Risks

Chapter 22: Weighing Risks

Laura's eyes flickered over the image of Remington in the bathroom when he stepped into the room. The hand holding her toothbrush never swayed in its vigorous motion as she brushed her teeth. She watched as he shoved his hands into his pockets, then waited him out. A dozen seconds passed before his eyes met hers in the reflective pane of glass.

"I'm sorry." She reached for the cup of water and rinsed before speaking.

"I know you are." With slow deliberation she rinsed out her tooth brush, tapped off the excess moisture then dropped it in its holder and turned around. Crossing her arms, she regarded him with a lift of her shoulders and a shake of her head. "But apologies will only work so many times, Remington. It can't be like this." She crossed the room and lay a hand on his shoulder. " _You_ can't be like this." She slipped past him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where she opened one of his dresser drawers.

"Lau-ra," he appealed from behind her, "We're not speaking about a petty thief we helped—" She held up a hand, stopping him. Although affronted by the highhandedness of that particular gesture, he marked it to his favor that she'd helped herself to the top of his wine-colored, silk pajamas. He taken notice – whether consciously or unconsciously – that when well and truly angered with him, she opted to sleep in her own night clothes.

"Save your breath," she advised, closing the drawer, then dropping the top on the bed. "You can't be like this," she repeated her prior assertion. Her easy dismissal of his concerns pricked his temper, not for the first time on the evening.

"Damn it, Laura, this is Roselli we're speaking of! Have you forgotten what he's capable of?"

"Maybe it's that I remember too well," she shot back, as she began undressing. "We didn't give him enough credit. He's a trained operative with a very personal vendetta against us. He's smart, certainly more intelligent than he lets on. He's adept at slipping in and out of roles. He's skilled at manipulating people into believing what he says _and_ into doing what he needs. He knows _us…_ far better than we know him. Most importantly, he knows our weaknesses," she finished as she stood up and pulled the pajama top on.

"Which is exactly what has me worried!" he defended, drawing a hand through his hair in frustration. "We've far more to protect than we did our last go 'round with him! I nearly lost you twice at his hands, and we came damned close to losing Livvie before we ever had a chance to know her." She thanked God for the privacy of the closet, as a chill skittered up her spine as snapshots of memories flashed through her thoughts. She scrunched her face and clenched a fist. She couldn't very well get her point across to him if she allowed her emotions to get the better of her. "Now, we have Sophie, Holt and Father that we need to keep safe as well!" Tossing her clothes in the hamper, she forced a disapproving look on her face and stepped out of the closet.

"The children and your father are our vulnerabilities, Remington, _not_ our weaknesses!" she argued, as she grabbed the Hawthorne file off the dresser where she'd laid it earlier, then seated herself on top of the comforter on the bed.

"It would seem to me they're one and the same," he dissented, sitting down on the end of the bed and pulling his polo over his head. He'd be forgoing his normal ritual of a shower before bed, as he'd taken a long turn under the hot spray of the water after their run earlier.

"Well, you're wrong. They're our vulnerabilities because we'd do whatever we had to keep them safe," she schooled, "Just as Selena's vulnerability was her daughters. She didn't think twice about handing over the money once she was given this picture." She held up the picture she had been studying. "Our weaknesses are our personal attributes – shortcomings _and strengths_ \- that can be exploited or manipulated giving our opponent the advantage."

"Our strengths are our weaknesses?" he asked dubiously, dropping his final sock on the floor then standing to shed his pants.

"I'd like to believe one of my greatest strengths is my mind," she explained, thankful the mood had veered from confrontational towards conversational.

"I would concur," he replied, opening the drawer to his dresser and removing the matching pajama bottoms to the shirt she wore. Unseen, she scrunched her nose in distaste at having to make the next admission.

"And I suppose I'd have to consider my need for control in my life as one of my weaknesses," she shared on a reluctant sigh. He chuckled, ruefully, as he gathered up his discarded apparel.

"Far be it from me to disagree," he quipped while walking to the closet.

"I didn't think you would," she commented, drily. "My point is: Roselli had filed away important details about each of us. The drugs were all about taking away my control, clouding my mind and making me susceptible to his suggestions. By keeping me drugged, hallucinating and scared out of my mind he was subduing me as effectively as he was with the restraints he used. Even if I could have gotten free of my bonds and him, I couldn't think clearly enough to formulate an effective plan of escape."

Remington, draped in a robe left hanging open, emerged from the closet and joined Laura on the bed. Plucking the picture from her hand, he stole the unused pillow from behind her and stuffed it behind his back, so he could lounge comfortably against the backboard. Considering it an unspoken invitation, she swiveled on the bed, then lay back, pillowing her head on his thighs. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards and his eyes flickered to the alarm clock on her nightstand as she took his free hand in hers. If someone had told him a dozen years ago that he'd find himself in bed at nine in the evening for any reason other than a quick shag, he'd have thought them mad.

"I imagine this is the part where you spout my virtues and tell me how the bugger uses them?" he speculated, his eyes studying the picture in his hand.

"Yes… and no," she drew out the last word, as she began tracing his fingers with the tip of one of hers. There were times nearness, touch and a healthy dose of logic were more effective at getting through to Remington Chalmers Steele than bringing the hammer down on him. So far, as she'd hoped, tonight was appearing to be one of those occasions. Eyes still glued to the picture, he feigned a pout.

"Why is it I suspect my ego is about to suffer a blistering put down?" he groused. She grinned up at him.

"As far as I'm concerned two of your very best attributes are how you love the people you love and your instincts," she shared, honestly. Looking down at her, he grinned wide, positively chuffed by the compliment. "But-" His face fell.

"Of course, there is a 'but'." Her smile widened at his unhappiness.

"But the former is your Achilles Heel rendering the latter useless," she finished. "When you sense a threat, real or potential, against us or the life you've made for yourself, you're blind to everything else around you. It's how DesCoin lured you to the acid baths, it's how you ended up at Club 10 with a gun in your hand, it's why you went to Paddington Station… and it's why I nearly watched you die. It's also why _you_ become one of our greatest Achilles heels at times like these." She'd fully captured his attention and with a pained look on his face, he leaned his head against the backboard and closed his eyes with grimace.

"Laura…" he protested.

"I need you to listen to me, Remington and for you to really hear what it is I'm saying," she pressed, quietly. "As much as you might like to, you can't hide all of us away at the first hint of trouble. The children, especially the girls, are getting old enough to understand what it means when Tank and Dozer appear in their lives, and they're experts at sensing when either of us are upset. Every time something like this happens, how _we_ react has a direct bearing on _their_ happiness, _their_ sense of safety, _their_ feeling of security. I want them to look back on their childhood and remember building sandcastles and doing gymnastics on the beach, playing chicken with you and I in the pool and lazy weekends with the five of us piled in the hammocks as the children share their weeks when otherwise they might only reveal pieces of it. I don't want their childhood memories to be of fear…" she paused in stroking his hand and looked up at him, "And I know you don't either," she told him with quiet confidence. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly while shaking his head slowly and drawn a hand through his hair.

"No." In a fluid movement she sat up and slung a leg over him. Catching her hips in his hands, he eased her down onto his lap as she rested her arms on his shoulders and cupped the back of his neck and head in her hands.

"Then there's me," she continued, her fingers caressing the side of his neck. "I need my partner, Mr. Steele, and I don't mean just at work. I don't know anyone who can beat us when we're on our game, but you aren't on yours right now. You're so consumed by only the possibility of Roselli appearing that you can't see anything else and _that_ places us in danger of being blindsided by something we didn't see coming. I need your instincts sharp, not dulled by panic. I need you not only to be present, but _to be here,_ not off somewhere in that mind of yours obsessing with him." He palmed her face, his thumb stroking a cheek as his brows knitted together, worriedly.

"I can't lose you, Laura," he told her, gruffly. "Any of you. If—" She lay her index finger on his lips, stopping him.

"That's all it is right now, Remington," she reminded him, softly. "It's all an 'if'. _If_ Roselli manages to evade capture. _If_ he can manage to make it all the way across the country without being apprehended. The patch over his eye and the scar on his face makes him rather distinguishable. _If_ we're still foremost on his mind." She drew a hand through his hair. " _If_ he comes after us, it could be weeks, months… _years_ from now."

"So, we just wait for him to strike?" She lay her hand against his cheek in a caress. That he leaned into her touch slightly was a positive sign that he was listening and she was getting through.

"No, we _live,_ " she insisted. "Tank and Dozer will be with the children when we aren't… _for now._ You've arranged for a security system to be installed at the Rossmore. And, if I know you – and I like to believe I do – I'd lay odds you've arranged for a couple of Monroe's men to discretely watch over Thomas and Catherine, as well." His eyes flicked away from her, confirming her suspicions. "We need to let Mia and Lina know what's going on and let them make their own decision on how they'd like to proceed. What we're not going to do is allow Roselli to take anything else from us: Not our focus or our peace of mind, not our time or this life we've worked very hard not only to have, but to enjoy." She gently brushed a lock of hair back off his face. "We need you here with us, Remington, not with Roselli, wherever he is." She felt him shudder as he gathered her in his arms and buried his face in her neck, breathing deep her scent.

"And should I agree, will it get me out of that bloody marathon?" She couldn't help her laugh. Drawing back, she touched her lips to his.

"Half-marathon," she corrected, then widened her eyes at him. "Well, I don't know," she pretended to hedge. "I suppose that depends on you, although I seem to recall you mentioning many times over the years that Remington Steele's—"

"Word is his bond," he finished, then mumbled a pair of very Americanized epitaphs that drew her laughter again. Although the conversation had given her hope he'd get his head on straight, that half-marathon would stand as a reminder of the consequences for overreacting. She grinned at him, and began to lift herself from his lap, only to find a pair of large hands clasping her small waist. She lifted her brows and he pursed his lips. "Surely I'm entitled to a bit of… comfort… after my difficult day?" His hands stoked the curve of her bottom suggestively. She wrapped her arms around his neck again and leaned in until her lips were hovering mere millimeters from his.

"Sorry, big guy," she whispered, then slipped out of his embrace with a pat of her hand to his chest. His groan of disappointment was automatic.

"I hadn't realized you were quite so repelled by my… _love handles,_ " he muttered, saying the last two words with a mix of disdain and insult. Another pair of pats, to his shoulder this time.

"It's already 9:30," she informed him, as though the hour was of great relevance.

"Worried you're about to turn into a pumpkin?" he quipped. The remark earned a roll of her eyes.

"The carriage turns into the pumpkin, not Cinderella, Mr. Steele," she pointed out as she reached for the portable phone on her bedside table. The conversation inspired a vision of Laura draped in an ice blue, satin ball gown.

"If you're a princess, I suppose I must be your prince in shining armor," he mused, finding the thought rather fetching. He patted own chest a pair of times and gave her a smug smile.

"Or the frog," she shrugged, as she dialed a number into the phone and pressed the call button.

"The frog?" he sputtered, affronted. "First I've love handles and now I'm a frog," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "It's a wonder we make love at all."

"Ahhh, but you turn into a prince when we kiss," she teased. With a waggle of his brows and a wolfish leer, he leaned towards her.

"Then when we make love, I must become a king," he murmured.

"Awwwwwww," Murphy complained, loudly, on the other side of the line. "I'll never be able to unhear that." Laura chuckled as she leaned out of range of her husband's hopeful lips.

"Hi, Murph," she greeted, warmly. With a harrumph, Remington sat back up and picked up the picture he'd discarded earlier.

"Hi, pal," he returned. "Were your ears burning?"

"Should they have been?" she asked in answer.

"I was gonna give you a call tomorrow to see if you might have a spot at that Agency of yours for me." Her brows lifted in surprise.

"Sherry's Mom?" she speculated. Sherry's parents were in the early seventies, and had face several health issues in recent years. Her mother had suffered a trans ischemic attack the summer prior and was still in rehab to help her regain her full mobility again.

"Father," he corrected. "Congestive heart failure. In his health, he can't keep taking care of Sher's mom. We'll be moving back to LA right after the New Year. We put the house on the market yesterday and Steven's buying me out of the business."

"That has to be difficult," she commiserated.

"Not as difficult as I once thought it might be when the day came. I never enjoyed dealing with payroll, taxes, and balance sheets, like you do. I'm ready to earn an honest paycheck and to leave all the other worries to someone else. So, whaddya say? Can you use me on the team?"

"Well," she drew out the word, while tapping her lips with a finger, "We are looking for a trainee to replace Celek when he leaves and a seasoned veteran such as yourself would be a real boon." Remington's ears perked up at the comment. "I may have something else in mind for you. I was going to discuss the idea with Remington as soon as things calmed down around here a little."

"What idea?" Remington inquired.

"Later," she dismissed, with a flick of her wrist. "Yeah, I think we can find a place for you."

"Ah, jeez," Murphy bemoaned. " _He'll_ be my _boss._ Two weeks, Laura. I'll give him two weeks to have his fun and then—"

"I'll do my best to make him behave," she promised, then glanced at that 'him'. His wide smile and the devilish glint in his eyes earned him a frown. "Well, at least as much as anyone can make Mr. Steele behave." To that, she received a waggle of a pair of brows before Remington returned his attention to the photo, turning it over and examining the back.

Murphy snorted a dry laugh.

"You're the only person who ever could."

"It's a dirty job…" She let him finish the thought for himself. "Are you moving into Sherry's folk's place?"

"Only until our house sells," he replied, then added with a laugh, "Are you kidding me? They're exhausted after only spending a couple days with the boys."

"You know, one of the perks of working at the Remington Steele Agency is that we provide new associates with a home for them and their families, if they have one. How do you feel about the Wilshire Penthouse? It's close to the Agency, only a few miles from Sherry's parents' place and there's plenty of room," she reasoned. Two Christmases prior, Murphy and Sherry had stayed at the penthouse while in town for the holiday, so she didn't need to recite the perks of the place.

"You sure? I have no idea how long it will take to sell the house. The market will be slow until Spring."

"The penthouse is just sitting there empty," she assured, "And, as I said, it's one of the perks for new employees of the Remington Steele Agency."

"Then, we accept."

"I believe Good Shepard has a couple of open slots in fourth grade. I can call in the morning and see if they're still available."

"That'd be great, thanks. It'll be great to work with you again, pal." She smiled fondly.

"I agree."

"So, if not ESP, to what do I owe the pleasure of the call tonight?" Remington abruptly left the bed and disappeared into the closet, drawing her narrow-eyed attention.

"We have a case for you," she answered, with some mystery, then laughed. "Consider it your second 'first' case with the Remington Steele Agency."

"Whaddya have?" he asked, curiosity tickled.

"Do you still have the file you put together on Anthony Roselli?"

"Yeah, why?"

"We need you to find him," she answered, simply.

"Easiest job I've ever had," he grinned. "There can only be a few prisons in Greece."

"He was released from prison yesterday." She frowned. "Into the custody of the Mexican Federales, actually."

"Need to know where he'll be held until trial?" he guessed. She was momentarily distracted as Remington returned to his seat on the bed, a lidded box that contained pictures awaiting an album in his hands.

"Find something?" she inquired.

"I'm not sure," he answered, with a gesture that advised she return to her call. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he scooped up a pile of pictures from out of the box.

"He escaped, Murph," she informed her ex-partner, in a matter-of-fact manner. In his home in Denver, Murphy sat down heavily on a nearby bar stool.

"Well, how the hell did that happen?!" he bellowed, loudly enough for Remington to hear as he sorted through the picture pile. He puffed out his agreement but didn't utter so much as a word.

"I only know what Marcos has told us," Laura replied, then reciting the dry facts. "There was a lengthy layover in New York. While at the hotel, Roselli attacked the Federales, killing one and seriously injuring the other. We don't know if the second guard made it."

"Wait a minute. Are you telling me Roselli's on the loose here?!"

"Well, not 'here' in LA, but yes," she confirmed, then stipulated, " _If_ he hasn't already been caught."

"And no official notification has been made to the victim and star witness for the Mexican prosecution?" She shrugged her shoulders.

"We haven't heard from anyone," she answered. "For all—"

"Look, Laura, you need to get the hell outta there until we can figure out where this guy is." She sighed long and loud.

"Now you sound like him," she accused, wearily.

"Him who?"

"Mr. Steele, him."

"Always knew there was something I liked about Michaels," Remington interjected, in an undertone. "Healthy sense of self-preservation." Laura scowled, irritated by both men.

"We're not running," she retorted, adamantly, for the sake of both men. "We're going to be calm, rational… proactive, not reactive," she directed, in a tone that brooked no argument from either man. "Tomorrow morning Mr. Steele and I will contact Myerson to see if his contacts will share Roselli's current status. Murph, I had Bernice overnight our file on Roselli to you. You should have it by morning. I need you to identify any allies Roselli might still have, any place of importance to him and anywhere he's visited in the past where he might go underground." Murphy bestowed a strained smile on Sherry when she stepped into the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" she asked, immediately.

"Roselli was being transferred to Mexico to stand trial. He escaped in New York."

"Roselli? The man that kidnapped Laura?" Murphy nodded solemnly.

"That's the one," he confirmed. "Laura's asked me to look into it."

"I'd be willing to look at anything you have to see if his past behaviors might predict what he'll do next," she volunteered.

"Laura—" Murphy began to relay the offer.

"I heard. It can't hurt," she accepted. "Tell her we appreciate it."

"Laura said thanks," he relayed.

"Did you ask?" Sherry hinted, in case he'd forgotten in light of the news he'd received.

"All set. Laura and Steele offered us use of the Wilshire penthouse until the house sells," he shared, "A perk of the new job." Sherry looked as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

"That would be wonderful. Mom and Dad would be overwhelmed if we all stayed there too long." Sadness passed through her eyes and Murphy reached out and squeezed her hand.

"We'll be there soon, Sher."

"I know." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'll see you upstairs."

"She sounds like she's having a hard time," Laura commiserated after a couple of seconds had passed.

"She is. She's worried sick and feels helpless with us here. It'll be a lot easier on her once we get back to LA." He glanced over his shoulder towards the staircase where Sherry had disappeared. "Listen, pal, I should go."

"I understand," she answered in a voice filled with compassion.

"I'll call you in the morning after I've had a chance to go over both files. It should give you long enough to talk to who you need. And pal?... Stay safe."

"We will. Night, Murph." Hanging up the phone, she scooted closer to Remington and scanned the pictures he'd laid out, trying to deduce what was on his mind.

"'Anytime you take a chance, you better be sure the rewards are worth the risk,'" he spoke under his breath.

"Yes, and I don't think Roselli will see coming after us as a risk worth taking," she reiterated her earlier point. "Dare I hope, what I've said has gotten through?"

" _The Killing,_ Sterling Hayden, Coleen Gray, Vince Edwards, MGM, 1956," he quickly rattled off. "A motto, one might say, that I lived by in my previous life." His lips lifted in a quick, apologetic smile. "Daniel preferred more…personal involvement: picking pockets, the con, the sting…" his eyes flicked towards her again "…the seduction. He never cared much about the money. For him, it was about the thrill of putting one over on someone while looking them right in the eye, relying on no weapons other than his wit and charm." He moved his head from side-to-side. "Was a bit of arrogance on his part, to be certain, but also spoke of his confidence in his abilities to affect any character he wished." He turned his head to look at her, smiling fondly at the memory. "Damn, he was good."

"I saw some of his work," she reminded him, with a light note in her voice and a smile on her lips. He chuckled with unconcealed pride.

"He was so good that there were times I was convinced if Colonel Reginald Frobush and Leighton Sinclair were standing side-by-side, people would vow they were two different people although the only change Daniel had made to his physical appearance was Frobush generally sported a mustache and Sinclair favored wire rimmed glasses. It wasn't his appearance that allowed him to convince people he was someone other than who he was, it was in the subtle change in his bearing, the way he spoke, even his gestures. There were times even I missed when he'd change roles in the middle of a conversation, because of a mood or perhaps his senses titilated by a memory."

"I'm familiar with that failing," she smiled, as memories of their early days together danced through her mind. "It took longer than I'd like to admit to realize those five passports weren't just merely forged documents so that you could travel unnoticed, but that each of the names associated with those passports were a small piece of who you were… and it took even longer for me to have any confidence I'd figured out what version of you belonged to which name." He grinned at her again.

"But you did figure it out."

"You left me a fair number of clues to follow," she agreed. "So, what does Daniel have to do with all of this?" she wondered, holding her arm out towards the display spread out over the bed.

"Until the last few years of his life, Daniel wasn't in the habit of chasing the jobs that came at great personal risk to himself. He'd assess his marks then select his target based, in large part, on whether a particular mark would be inclined to report their losses. A woman seduced for her baubles was unlikely to risk humiliation by reporting her loss. A man with a collection of trinkets obtained though less reputable means was unlikely to report a loss for fear the authorities would take a closer look at where the remainder of his collection had come from. Small rewards with smaller risk. Our process for selecting a job wasn't dissimilar, although certainly the rewards from the jobs I undertook were far more substantial. When accepting a job from an insurance company with finder's fee attached, the odds were in my favor as I was merely taking back what was stolen from the rightful owners. The thief from who I stole would be unlikely to report their own losses as in doing so, they'd shine light on their own misdeed." She tipped her head to the side, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

"It wasn't a foolproof system," she noted aloud. He smiled at her, understanding where her thoughts had traveled.

"Ah, the Marchesa Collection was an exception. A misstep on my part, in truth. I hadn't given proper weight to the consideration the pieces had first been stolen centuries before, and therefore reporting the loss represented no true consequence to their, er, current owner as little documentation of the collection's rightful owner would exist." He raised his brows at her. "It was a mistake I made certain not to repeat."

"I see."

"My specialty were jobs that would add handsomely to that nuts I had previously stored away, while the risk to my neck was more-or-less confined getting caught in the proverbial act," he raised his brows at her and pursed his lips, amused with himself, "Which I was confident would not happen. Which makes me ask myself: Why Cash Now? Granted, forty-two thousand dollars is a substantial sum to most, but the cost of being caught wouldn't be significantly different than having robbed a bank where—"

"The reward would have been far greater," she concluded, thoughtfully.

"Precisely," he confirmed. "A bank robbery would have drawn considerable attention from the police, the press and perhaps even the public, with enough coverage. Our suspects faced the possibility of having to sit on the money for a spell, perhaps a long one if the serial number of any of the bills had been recorded."

"As was the case in De Nada. They had to wait seven years until the statute of limitation on the robbery expired," she mused. He tapped a fingertip to the side of his nose.

"Whereas the odds of Cash Now having recorded the serial numbers of their cash on hand was minimal, if not completely non-existent," he furthered. "Whoever our suspects are, they needed cash in a hurry, and couldn't afford to sit on it," he concluded. He picked up the photograph that had been given to Selena. "When I saw this," he pointed to a series of alpha-numeric characters on the back of the photograph, "It brought to mind the serial number on those bills." He picked up a stack of eight-by-ten photographs he'd separated into a single pile.

"These are pictures Vonn has sent us," she observed, as she skimmed through the photographs.

"If memory serves, Vonn once told you she develops her own film?" Laura turned her head to look at him.

"She does." He turned the pictures her hand over so she was looking at the back.

"That series of numbers is conspicuously absent. Whereas," he picked up another stack and handed them to her, "These are pictures Frances gave us of our trip to Vail last year." She sat aside Vonn's pictures and concentrated on the ones from Frances. "I think we can assume with a fair amount of certainty that Frances doesn't develop her own film."

"She uses Quik Snaps in Tarzana," Laura confirmed, thoughtfully as she noted that series of numbers was on the back of each of Frances's pictures. "All of these are marked." He nodded his head.

"As are the photographs given to us by Bernice, Lina, Mildred and Abigail. The first three numbers on all those pictures remains remarkably the same depending on who gave them to us." He pointed to each pile as he spoke. "I can't help but wonder if that number would allow us to identify where the picture given Selena was printed—" Her head shot up, her eyes wide.

"And potentially identify our suspects," she concluded, her eyes bright with eagerness. "I think, Mr. Steele, a trip to our local Photomatic is in order tomorrow morning…"


	27. Chapter 23 - Dingo

Chapter 23: Dingo

It was a difficult night in the Steele household. Just after the two o'clock hour, Remington was jarred awake by an unfamiliar sound. His eyes had barely opened – and his brain hadn't even a chance to determine what was wrong – when Laura whimpered fearfully in her sleep and began pushing and slapping at his arm which still lay around her waist.

His first instinct had been decidedly wrong.

Tightening his arm around her both to comfort her and to keep her on the bed, he'd pressed up on his other elbow then leaned down so his mouth lay near her ear. The sensation of someone's breath against her cheek pierced through the nightmare, became a part of it as she relived a morning of terror from years before.

"Laura, wake up," he urged in a whisper. Her entire body twitched, then she bolted upwards, never registering when her forehead collided with his lip. He muttered an oath under his breath as he sat up as well and reached for, her, only to find himself being slapped away.

"No! Nonononono…" she chanted, her eyes unfocused yet fear-filled as she scrambled backwards on the bed, trying to evade him.

And in the wildness of her eyes and the way she fought, he knew exactly where she was… and with whom.

Paying no heed to his stinging lip, he leaned forward and pulled her into his embrace.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, mo ghrá."

She stilled, then with a deep, rasping breath, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Focusing on the rhythmic stroking of his hand up and down her back and his scent surrounding her, she struggled to pull herself together.

"I'm sorry," she panted, when she could speak around the panic that had been clawing at her throat. With a shake of his head, he pressed his cheek against the side of her head.

"You've nothing to be sorry for." Another minute ticked past before she relaxed against him with a long exhale followed by a shudder. "Better?" She nodded against his shoulder.

"Let's try for a little shut eye then, hmmm?" Another nod saw him releasing her to lay back down. Automatically, he began stretching out on his side then rolled to his back, recalling that in the days and months after Laura's kidnapping, spooning together as they slept evoked nightmares such as the one she'd just had. He opened an arm in invitation. She'd just begun laying down when, in the dim light of the room, his swollen lip caught her eyes. Leaning over him, she turned on his bedside lamp. In the full light, it was impossible to miss the busted lip that was still oozing droplets of blood. Guilt assailed her, knowing it could have only been done by her hand. Scrambling off the bed and into the bathroom, she ran a washcloth under cool water, wrung it out then returned to the bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, as she sat down on the side of the bed and dabbed at the lip, making him wince.

"Nothing more than an accident," he brushed off, while sweeping aside her hand. "Come to bed, Laura. All will be well in the morning."

"I'm sorry." It was as though her mind had become a film reel, playing on a continual loop and the film's soundtrack was comprised of only those two words: Thoughts rioted in her mind, but she could capture none of them wholly.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," he repeated again, swaying his head away from the hand intent on rectifying the damage to him. "Put the washcloth up, love, and come to bed."

Her shoulders sagged. Embarrassed by the nightmare, and mortified that she'd hurt him, her empty hand fluttered up to finger her throat. Still, she stood, rinsing out the washcloth and hanging it to dry in the bathroom before returning to the bedroom. Joining him in bed, she lay her head under his shoulder and tucked herself into his side, laying a hand on his chest when he wrapped his arm around her then reached for the lamp and turned off the light.

"I'm sorry." _Damn._

"Lau-ra," he berated in quiet voice.

"I'm sorry." _Double damn._ "Sorry," she apologized for apologizing, then with puff of frustrated air that stirred the hair on his chest, she gave up, deflating against him. He stroked his hand over her hip.

"You can hardly control the demons your mind decides to unleash on you as you sleep, Laura, no matter how much you might like to do so." She sighed long and loud while pressing a palm to her forehead.

"Frankly, I'm embarrassed," she admitted, relieved she'd finally managed to speak any two other words than 'I'm sorry.' "I can hardly lecture you on using a level head if I'm going to be doing _that_." She swept her hand towards her side of the bed.

"As tempting as it might be to try and wiggle out of the hot water I've found myself in, it's hardly the same." He reached for the hand lying against his chest and tangled their fingers together. "Get some sleep, love. Morning's not far off."

With a sigh and a nod, she snuggled a bit closer, resisting the impulse to apologize again. Soon, the feeling of his hand caressing her arm and hip, lulled her back to sleep.

* * *

It wasn't quite four when a scream pierced the silence of the house, jolting Laura and Remington from their sleep. Leaping from the bed, they ran towards Olivia's room. Shoving the door open, Laura rushed to Sophie's bed and gathered her little girl in her arms. Feeling utterly helpless, Remington watched as Sophie pawed frantically at her mother, her wide eyes darting around the room. Spotting a wide-eyed Livvie sitting up in her bed, uncertain what was happening, he sat down next to her and drew her into his lap.

"He's here!" Sophie screeched, inconsolable, pushing and shoving at Laura trying to make an escape.. "The bad man! He's here!"

"No, sweet girl," Laura crooned, "He's not."

"He is! He is!" Pushing against Laura's sternum with her palms and digging her heels into the bed for leverage, she struggled to get away, another scream wrenched from her throat when she thought she saw movement near the window. Laura stood with her battling daughter held tightly in her arms, before they both toppled from the bed. She paced the width of the room, bouncing, as though Sophie weighed no more than a babe.

"I _promise_ , Soph, he's not here." She looked at Remington, pointedly. "Da's going to check the room, but I _promise_ , he's not here. You had a bad dream, that's all." With a quick rub of his hand against Livvie's back, he immediately stood to do his wife's bidding. Hell, he'd slay a dragon with his bare hands if it would calm his little girl.

Sophie's scream abruptly ended in loud subs. Wrapping her arms and legs around Laura, she tried to burrow herself in the safety of her mother's embrace. Across the room, on the other bed, Livvie wailed and erupted into a torrent of tears. It had been this way from the very beginning with the girls, Sophie's unhappiness drawing Olivia's tears. She carried Sophie to Livvie's bed, then sat down, wrapping an arm around her first born.

"It's alright, Livvie," Laura assured. "Sophie just had a bad dream, that's all." Her reassurances were ineffective, Livvie wetting the side of her nightshirt with tears while Sophie did the same to her shoulder.

"No one in the bathroom," Remington announced as he emerged from Livvie's private bathroom. Dropping to his knees, he lifted the dust ruffle on Livvie's bed. "All clear here." He crawled around her bed to the bed Sophie slept in. "Nothing here either." Standing, he walked to the windows, checking that each was latched. "Shut tight," he informed the room. Swinging open the closet door he stepped inside and since he couldn't been seen, made it a point to scrape hangers against the rod so he'd be heard. Stepping out of the closet, he pronounced, "Not a thing to be found."

His search was all for naught. Sophie couldn't be convinced, and Livvie wouldn't be consoled until Sophie was.

"Alright, girls, to our room," Laura instructed as she stood with Sophie still clinging to her. Holding out her hand, she helped Livvie from the bed. "Remington, grab Charming." Remington's mouth fell open and he eyed the feline, warily. He'd be picking the ungrateful beast's hair off his clothing for a week should—

"Lau-ra," he complained.

"The cat, Mr. Steele." Her tone left no room for argument. Reluctantly, he picked the cat up, keeping it as from his person as possible.

"If you don't wish to find yourself accidentally locked outside the next time it rains, I'd suggest you stay on _her_ side of the bed," he advised the cat.

In the bedroom, Laura pulled back the sheet and comforter.

"Climb on in, Livvie," she directed.

Once Livvie was settled near the middle of the bed, hiccupping, Laura sat Sophie down next to her and got into bed herself. Stretching out on her side, she opened her arms and the still distressed little girl lay down and buried her face in Laura's chest. Dumping the cat unceremoniously at the foot of the bed on Laura's side, Remington got into bed, and lay down facing Laura, then waited patiently as Livvie squirmed against him, until she found the perfect spot and nestled against him.

"One of us should check on Holt," Laura whispered in the dusky room, stroking Sophie's back. He needn't ask who that 'one' was given her hands were full.

"I'll be back in just a moment, a stór." Bussing Livvie atop her head, he flung back the covers and left the bed.

He found Holt precisely as he'd expected: Sound asleep. _The lad could sleep through a marching band parading through his room,_ he mused. After tucking the covers back around the boy, he returned to the master. His nose shriveled at the sight of Charming curled up on his pillow. The cat protested when he was picked up and returned to the end of the bed. As he brushed off his pillow with a hand, he noted with some relief that Livvie's tears had quelled and Sophie had calmed down to the occasional sniffle. Sliding back into the bed, he waited while Livvie did her wiggle and snuggle routine, then lay down his head.

"Mommy, I'm thirsty," Sophie croaked.

"I imagine so," Laura replied, lightly, brushing Sophie's hair back off her face, "All those tears dried you out."

"A glass of water it is, a thaisce," Remington volunteered, crawling out of bed again and walking to the bathroom. When he returned, he handed the glass to Laura and moved Charming off his pillow for the second time. "Stay, you useless ball of fur," he commanded, pointing to where he'd sat the cat down. He muttered to himself about 'ungrateful beasts' as he swept a stray hair from his pillow, then got into bed.

This time his head never reached the pillow.

"Da, I have to go." Livvie squirmed next to him in hint. "Off you go, then." Sitting up, he plucked her off the bed and set her on her feet on the floor, then reclined back on his elbows to await her return.

"Since you're up, would you mind?" Laura held up the half-filled glass of a water. His eyes trekked down over his partially-prone frame. It would seem someone had a very broad definition of 'up' this evening.

"Pleasure," he agreed, wearily, taking the glass from her and standing.

Livvie shrieked when he stepped into the bathroom.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized, with lifted hand as he backed out. He gave Laura a curious look, who in turn shrugged a shoulder.

"She's almost seven," she offered, as though that was any explanation at all.

"Not this time, old boy." Following a long stretch, Charming had begun creeping up the bed… and found himself right back where he'd started from.

The sound of the toilet flushing was followed by Livvie running back into the room and scrambling into bed. Exchanging places with her, he emptied the glass and sat it on the counter. Trudging back into the bedroom, he climbed into bed for what he dearly hoped was the last time that evening. At least he had the satisfaction that a certain frustrating feline had finally understood his place.

He waited for Livvie to finish her squirming and shifting, then with a sigh closed his eyes and slung an arm over the divide so his hand rested on Laura's hip. With a tongue flick against his lips, he settled in more comfortably and let sleep close the curtains on his mind.

He awoke, sputtering, not long afterward when the tail of a cat swished across his nose. With an oath, he sat up, scooped up the cat, and deposited him at the end of the bed.

"Stay!"

The battle between man and beast continued until shortly before dawn when Remington raised the flag of surrender, tossing pillow, then cat to the end of the bed. With a long stretch and a yawn that Remington was certain was meant to mock him, Charming curled up on the pillow and, purring, closed his eyes.

* * *

Remington moved his head from side-to-side in the passenger seat, then circled it, trying to work out the kink in his neck.

"Nero," he pronounced in the silence of the Explorer, as Laura drove them towards the office. "Now there was a cat a man could appreciate. Hardly ever saw him." Her eyes slanted towards him, then with a silent snort of a laugh, returned her eyes to the road.

"Only because he didn't like you," she informed him.

"Nonsense," he dismissed. "Nero and I had an agreement. I'd slip him a little salmon here and there and he in turn would do what cats are supposed to do: Snub their noses at the inferior humans."

"He may have liked your salmon, but he didn't like you," she refuted. "You were always barging in and showing up, upsetting his routines and monopolizing my attention."

"Was that Nero's complaint, or yours," he asked with the crook of a brow." She flashed him a smug smile but declined to answer.

"I think we should consider adding a new leg to the security arm of the Agency," she announced.

"Exactly what type of appendage are we mulling?" he asked, suspiciously. The security arm of the Agency was more-or-less his to run and while _very_ profitable, it wasn't so overly busy that he couldn't continue to partner her. His eyes narrowed further. "This is because of Murphy, isn't it?" She lifted her eyes heavenward, as vestiges of jealousies past showed themselves.

"No…" she drew out the word, then ruined the moment by adding, "And yes. It's an idea inspired by Hawthorne, actually." Prepared to go into a full blown pout or launch a full scale argument against whatever she had in mind – he wasn't sure which – he was caught off guard by this bit of information.

"Sorry. Must have dozed off for a moment. I could have sworn I heard you say Hawthorne inspired you."

"I did." He turned more fully towards her and rested an elbow on the sill of the window.

"The man you routinely refer to as 'that swine?'" he verified.

"Misogynistic pig," she corrected. "But yes, the one and same."

"Well, then, by all means, I'm all ears," he encouraged with an upward flip of his hand.

"I think it's time we branch out into security." She held up a hand before he could point out the obvious. "I don't mean systems, I mean people." His nose crinkled as though he'd smelled something foul.

"Rent-a-cops?" he sneered. "

"Do you recall the Stevens' case in '85?" He searched his mind, then grinned.

"The Veenhoff case, don't you mean?" he asked. She puffed out an annoyed breath. Of course he couldn't let her have this one. She steeled herself for what was to come. "Stevens was merely a bit player, after all, fearful his wife would become a reluctant model in _Bedside Babes,_ much like his neighbor and—"

"Mr. Steele," she growled the warning.

"Honestly, Laura, it's been near on a decade. I don't know why it still bothers you. I imagine there are only a few hundred of those magazines left in circulation, hidden beneath the mattresses of hormone charged lads and prisoners, waiting for the next time they a bit of need inspiration to—"

"Mr. Steele!" she snapped, "Focus, please! If you'll recall, Ford Stevens mentioned seeing me at the Presidential Primary—"

* * *

" _ **Century Plaza Hotel. Presidential Primary, 1984. You were wearing some sort of- provocative gown."**_

* * *

The memory left him crossing his arms...

"Ahhh, yes, you in attendance wearing a provocative gown, I believe it was," he interrupted, "While I…" he rubbed his chin feigning thought, "Where was I, again?" She smirked at him.

"That's a question only you can answer," she retorted, pertly. "The point, Mr. Steele, is what I saw that evening and the conversation I had with an old… associate." There was no way she'd confess that 'old associate,' Bruce Liscomb, had been an investigator for Havenhurst when she'd first arrived fresh from Stanford. In his later thirties, the man had been nothing short of a sexist, handsy boor.

"An old associate, hmmm?" That the man was sitting there wondering if this 'associate' had been competition for her affections more than a decade prior called for her second eye roll on the trip. She smirked at him again. Let him imagine what he wants.

"Bruce had started—"

"Bruce?" She amended her prior thought. The man would be useless to her if he was going to obsess on an evening he didn't accompany her and a man that possibly had. With a huff of aggravation, she held up her left hand and waggled her fingers.

"For better or worse, you have me, remember?" It only took a split second for his ego to register he'd been the victor and the subsequent grin saying she'd tickled some part of his ego left her shriveling her nose. "As I was saying," she huffed, "This old associate had started a security service, a fairly lucrative one if he can be believed. His company focused mainly on providing security guards to local businesses—"

"Rent a cops?" he asked with a fair mixture of disbelief and disdain. "We've worked so hard to cultivate a certain image for the Agency, do you really think it's wise—"

"I'm not talking about armed security guards for banks, malls or places like Hawthorne's," she clarified. "Bruce was at the primary networking, hoping to take his company to the next level, but, frankly," she slanted her eyes in his direction, "Most people in the market for personal security during events like the Presidential Primary are looking for security details that don't wear a sign on their foreheads announcing they are hired muscle. They want a detail that can put on a tux or gown then blend in and mingle with other guests as unobtrusively as possible." He pondered the thought.

"So we're speaking of personal security for galas, gallery openings, benefits…"

"Upcoming primaries, campaign fundraisers, opening ceremonies like the one we attended for the Hollywood Archives," she added. His eyes lit up at the last, for it such affairs which had provided him opportunities to rub elbows with the likes of Dorothy Lamour, Lloyd Nolan and Virginia Mayo. That thought niggled another.

"I should stop round Ronnie and Maxi's today or tomorrow, to see how they're doing," he noted, aloud.

"We should have them over for lunch on Sunday," she suggested.

"It has been a few weeks. I believe I will." With that settled he returned to the original matter. "It's not a bad idea," he conceded. "But where will we house all these… bodyguards, for lack of a better word? We're bursting at the seams as it is."

"We don't," she deadpanned. His brows furrowed.

"We don't?"

"No. We'll hire them as independent contractors, have them sign non-disclosure agreements, provide them with a pager or cell phone for strictly Agency use and use the conference room for training." She paused, then slanted her eyes in his direction. "Or, more specifically, the new conference room." He raised a single brow.

"The _new_ conference room?" he inquired, not concealing his curiosity.

"I overheard a pair of employees from Innovative Tech speaking on the elevator on Monday. They're closing their doors here in LA at the end of the year to set up shop in Silicon Valley, which means…"

"The suite adjoining ours will be opening up," he concluded. She pointed a finger at him.

"Exactly," she confirmed, enthusiastically. Remington mentally reviewed what he knew of the space.

"It's a large space, as large as what we have now. Far larger than what we'd need, some might argue." Laura turned her head to look at him, anticipation sparkling in her eyes.

"Not for what I have in mind," she countered. He raised a singular brow before she returned her attention to the road.

"There's more?"

"I'd like to expand the investigative and security arms of the Agency to two full-time teams, then promote Zach and Brandon to senior investigator," she announced. The news was greeted by a minute shake of his head and a hand drawn across his mouth, as he digested it all. "We've been turning down business because we already have more than we can handle," she ticked off the reasoning behind her thoughts. "Zach and Brandon are good… really good. If we don't act soon, we may lose them."

"Like Celek?" he suggested.

"Yes. People need to know their efforts are appreciated and that they have opportunity for promotion," she pointed out. He did the calculations and shook his head.

"We'd need space for four more offices. From what I recall of Innovative Tech's space, there are, at minimum, eight. It may be larger than we need." Any form of frugality from her husband never failed to amuse her, and a bemused smile lifted her lips.

"Actually, it's just about perfect. We move Brandon and Kiara to the new office space and convert the current conference room into a larger office for Zach and a filing room. In the new space we create an executive office comparable to Mildred's for Murph, an office of comparable in size to Zach's for Brandon, four offices for the security team, a second breakroom and set of bathrooms, and a larger conference room that can play double duty for staff meetings and training." She'd finally offered him the opening he'd been awaiting since her conversation with Murphy the evening prior.

"An executive office for Michaels, eh? Dare I ask what it is you have in mind for him?" He didn't particularly care for sly smile or mischievous glint in her eyes in answer to his question.

"He'll head up our newest venture, of course," she informed him, as though it was a foregone conclusion. His brow furrowed. Given the security arm of the Agency was his to oversee – much like investigations was Laura's and white collar was Mildred's – it seemed to him that it would be he who would oversee Laura's proposed addition.

"I thought security was mine," he commented.

"It is," she acknowledged. "And if you want the added responsibilities of training and overseeing personal security, then by all means, it's yours. Of course, most events of the type we're speaking of will require late nights, and your days will be longer given training, determining assignments, not to mention-"

"On the other hand, Michaels' could do all that while I supervise," he said, quickly seizing onto that far more attractive option. Longer days… and nights? Pffftttt. It was one thing to be running about of an evening with Laura, seeing what type of trouble they could get themselves into and out of, quite another to make it a regular affair. Come to think of it, he rather liked the idea the tables would have at last turned: He the partner of long standing and Murphy the newly arrived. _Mmm, yes, a man could have a bit of fun with that,_ he mused. Reading his thoughts easily, she sighed and offered what was now a trifecta of eye rolls as she turned the Explorer into the parking lot of a Photomat located only a few short blocks from the office.

" _Try_ to remember you and Murphy are no longer in competition, real or imagined," she implored, as she stepped down out of the SUV. The cheeky grin he bestowed upon her did nothing to reassure.

"I've no idea what you mean," he feigned innocence.

"Of course, you don't," she sighed as she rapped her knuckles against the drive-thru window of the photo developing shop, already making mental bets on how many times she'd have to rein his 'fun' in.

"Yo, dudette, no fingerprints on the glass" a man in his mid-twenties greeted, as he opened the small drive through window, then reached out with a paper towel to wipe the imaginary smudge away.

"Laura and Remington Steele, Remington Steele Investigations," she announced, holding up her credentials. For a man that had known a wide variety of people in his life, the look on Remington's face was priceless. The tanned, skinny, white young man sporting dreadlocks and using surfer slang appeared to be a bit more than he could process.

"Yo, you're like the dude in the papers! Righteous!" The employee held up a hand in the universal symbol of a high five.

"Right on," Remington returned, with a noted lack of enthusiasm as he reluctantly slapped his palm to the other man's. Laura straightened slightly where she stood. On the rare occasion, Remington would display a bit of snobbery not in keeping the man who could blend in with any class of people. This was one of those times, and her eyes slanted to the worker, watching his reaction. If Remington offended him-  
"Old timer! I can dig it!" the guy laughed, forming his fingers into a gun and pretending to shoot it a pair of times. Laura quickly looked at the worker's name badge. _Dingo? You have got to be kidding me!_

"Old—"

"Dingo," Laura stepped in quickly before Remington, thoroughly affronted, could speak further, "Have you worked here long?"

"Oh, yah, since I was like sixteen. My buds are all like, 'Bro, you gotta get you a better job,' but I'm like, 'Dudes, it's, like, all about the surf!' And, yo," he leaned forward and spoke as if confidence, "Like some of the pictures that come through here? They'd blow your mind. I'm like, 'Dude, you know someone else, like, sees these, right?'" Laura leaned forward and propping her elbow on the sill of the window, rested her chin in her hand and widened her eyes.

"Seven years… You must know a lot about the business," Laura schmoozed.

"You know it! It's like sick how much I know about the biz," Dingo boasted.

"Then maybe you could help us on a case," she suggested.

"Whoa, dudette, that's epic! You want my help? Like, for real?"

"For real," she confirmed, then held out her hand to Remington. Without question, he removed the photo from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "Can you tell us if these numbers have any significance?" She tapped her finger above the printed area in question.

 _No. 19 013 02+00 NNNNN+14AU 1218_

"They're only, like, the holy grail of printing, man. Like this," he indicated the _'No. 19,'_ then disappeared inside the small hut as he spoke, "That's, like, exclusive to the Fuji. We use the Kodak," he continued, returning to set another picture down in front of her on the window ledge, "So you'll like never see that on our pictures." He pointed again. "See?" With Remington leaning over her shoulder to peer down at the pictures, she looked from photo-to-photo, comparing.

"I see," she noted. "And the rest?"

"0-1-3, that's like the number a company gives their machine. We're 0-0-4, see? My bud, Kanga, works at the Mat on Venice Beach. Talk about a bitchin' location. Dude can get the surf report just looking, like, right out his window." His voice took on a wistful quality. "I'd kill for that location."

"I understand," Laura commiserated. "Mr. Steele would always prefer to be on a beach."

"Whoa, Old Timer rides the wave? Respect!"

"Not exactly," she answered, drily while Remington's lips thinned in annoyance at yet another derogatory reference to his age. "And the machine number for Venice beach is…" she prompted.

"0-2-1." Laura's eyes shone with anticipation, as her nimble mind latched on the possibilities. _Could it really be so simple?_

"Does the manufacturer of the machine assign that number?"

"Nah. The techie enters the number when it's installed. So, like, a Mom and Pop kinda store would be 0-0-1, cuz they only have the one. For us, the boss man owned thirty-seven Mats before business got like really slow cuz of the mini labs." _Of course not_. Her spirits plunged.

"So there's really no way of identifying where this was printed, then," she commented, resignedly.

"Don't get all bummed out, dudette," Dingo replied. "Thirteen machines means like a chain, you know, like your Mats, superstores, drug stores. And see this?" He pointed at the last four number, _0218._ "That number, like tells you the job number. There aren't like a lot of places that kinda business printing in a week anymore." Remington's ears perked up at the last.

"So, all we need to do is find a Fuji machine numbered 0-1-3 then the job number will tell us who the prints were for." Picking up the photo he slipped it back into his jacket pocket. "Simple enough," he assessed. Laura had other ideas.

"I have a feeling Dingo knows who printed this," she shared the hunch with Remington then turned her attention back to Dingo, "Do you?"

"Not exactly know but I'm like pretty sure it's one of three places," he confirmed her suspicion. "But even if I'm right you're not going to, like, find anything out anyway."

"Why not?" Remington jumped in to ask.

"Customer privacy, bro," Dingo shot back. Remington might have considered 'bro' a step up from 'old timer' but the way the other man had uttered the three words had suggested he, Remington, was too dense to have realized the obvious.

"But they'd tell you," Laura pressed.

"Well, yah, we're like a brotherhood."

"How long would it take you to get the information we need?" Dingo leaned back, looked in the direction of the wall perpendicular to where he stood, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Like a couple hours? One of the places don't open, like, until ten." Fishing in her purse, Laura pulled out a business card.

"The picture?" she asked Remington. With a disbelieving look, he removed it from his pocket and handed it to her. She lay picture and business card on the ledge of the window. "If you can get that information to us before noon, any board of your choice is on us."

"Far out!" Dingo praised enthusiastically, then looked at her doubtfully. "Like for real?"

"Under one condition: You don't mention why you need the information. We can't chance the person we're looking for learning we're on to them."

"Epic," Dingo grinned...

* * *

"Old timer," Remington muttered beneath his breath as they returned to the Explorer. Laura patted him on the upper arm, but offered no comfort. As far as she was concerned, Dingo dings to his vanity only made up for the way she'd stroked it earlier. "You do realize we've just given away our only piece of evidence to a man incapable of uttering a sentence without the word 'like', don't you?" She looked back over her shoulder at the hut, then with a smile, shrugged a careless shoulder.

"There just something about him that tells me he'll come through for us," she told him, as they parted to approach either side of the Explorer.

"Appeals to the girl who once wanted a Jeep, does he?" he ventured, once they were both seated inside. Her hand paused where it was poised to insert the key into the ignition. The look she gave him was full of warmth. God knew the man had his shortcomings, but the way he stored away even the smallest of tidbits she'd shared with him most certainly fell in his favor.

"Maybe," she agreed, as she faced front again and started the SUV.

An idea began to formulate in Remington's mind…


	28. Chapter 24 - Renegade

Chapter 24: Renegade

In the conference room, as Remington wrapped up the case review portion of their morning staff meeting, Laura picked up the handset to the phone on the conference room table and depressed the intercom button.

"Bernice, we're ready for you."

"Be right there."

Once Bernice sat down at the conference table, all eyes turned to Laura and Remington.

"Mr. Steele and I have several new developments to share with you this morning," she announced.

She and Remington had decided on the short trip from Photomat to the office to move forward with her ideas for expansion. He'd been hesitant, at first, loathe to take on more business if it were to come at the cost of time spent together as a family. Hadn't she just the evening before, after all, argued the quality of their personal lives and the children's routines? But she'd held the ace in her pocket on that, pointing out that by distributing more responsibility to Brandon, Zach and Murphy and increasing the staff they'd actually have more time as a family.

"So much so, in fact, I think we'd be comfortable adding another week's vacation at the end of August, before the children go back to school each year," she'd sweetened the pot. "Whaddya say?"

The idea had been too tempting for him to pass up. Expansion might mean longer hours and more work on the front end, but the rewards at the back end were significant in his eyes. As things stood now, they remained rooted to Los Angeles from the time they returned from Greece in June until the end of December when they traveled to their home in Vail for the Christmas holidays. Another full week, to travel wherever it was they wished? Sold.

Thus, by the time they pushed through the doors of the Agency, the matter had been settled.

"What happened to _you?_ " Bernice greeted. Lifting a hand, Remington unconsciously lay a pair of fingers against the bruised and swollen portion of his lower lip.

"It's the price one pays for antagonizing Mrs. Steele," he quipped. Bernice's eyes bugged open.

" _You_ did that?" she questioned Laura.

"As he said…" Laura allowed Bernice to draw whatever conclusions she wished. "Any messages?"

"Yeah," Bernice replied, stealing another glance at Remington and reaching for a stack of pink papers. "Mr. Hawthorne has already called twice this morning wanting an update on his case. Myerson asked that you call him back as soon as possible. Lieutenant Jarvis the same," she rattled off the highlights while handing Laura the messages, missing the silent communication which passed between Laura and Remington in regards to the last two.

"If Jarvis or Myerson call when we're in the staff meeting, tell them we'll return their call as soon as it is over," Laura directed. "And we'd like you to join us for the last part of the meeting." The request stirred Bernice's curiosity as it meant locking the Agency doors, hanging a notice they'd be briefly closed and rolling the calls to the answering service – a rarity. Resting her elbow on her desk, she propped her chin in hand and looked up at the pair.

"What's going on?"

"There have been a few recent developments to share," Laura answered mysteriously.

"Good ones?" Bernice pursued. Laura pursed her lips and considered the question.

"Let's just say… interesting." Holding up a pair of the pink slips, she announced, "I'll call Hawthorne with an update and the school while you make that call we discussed," she addressed the last to Remington. With a tilt of her head, she added, "Why don't you touch base with Monroe to see if he has anyone in mind." With a hum, Remington had disappeared into his office. "Bernice, let the staff know the meeting will convene in fifteen minutes in the conference room."

Now, all eyes were upon her.

"As you're all aware, Celek will be leaving the Agency in the not too distant future," she looked at Celek, "Regrettably so. While we wish him the best of luck in his future endeavors, this will leave a position open in investigations that we have already begun to address. However, we won't be hiring one new investigator but five."

"Once trained," Remington stepped in to add, while fiddling absently with the pen in front of him as his eyes wandered from face-to-face, "The investigative and security arms will staff two teams, overseen by Burton in investigations and Graham in security."

"In the nearly eight years Zach and Brandon have been with us, they have become an invaluable component of the Agency's success," Laura continued, "Which is why, effective today, we are promoting them to Senior Investigator." She waited until the smattering of applause, slaps on the back and murmurs of congratulations settled. "Zach, Brandon, Mr. Steele and I will meet with you at the beginning of next week to go over the changes in your responsibilities and compensation, of course, if you accept the offer."

"I'm in," Zach said, without hesitation.

"Thank you, yes," Brandon accepted.

"Splendid," Remington acknowledged, "Which brings us to our next announcement: This morning I secured the lease for the offices currently occupied by Innovative Tech. After we return for the Christmas holidays, we will begin remodeling the suite so it will suit our needs."

"Unfortunately," Laura took over, "That means for the time being, we are short on space. While the conference room can be used for the new hires temporarily, I'm sure there will be times you'll have to double up with one of them."

"We'll figure it out," Warmack spoke for Burton, Graham and herself, while they nodded their agreement. "Except for the morning debriefing, it's not like we're all in the office at the same time anyway."

"Appreciate that," Remington commented, then continued, "In the new year, we will be introducing a new division to security: Personal security, for high profile individuals and events."

"Body guards?" Mildred inquired, clearly surprised.

"If you mean like Tank and Dozer? No," Laura clarified. "Body guards are meant to be seen, to intimidate. Whoever we contract with will be taught to blend in, not stand out and they'll rely far more heavily on their instincts and wits than muscle, much as we do here every day."

"It sounds like we'll be needing more room than just the joint next door," Mildred assessed.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of 'contract,' Mildred," Remington corrected, "Not a one will actually be an employee of the Agency, so they'll require no space."

"What I want to know," Bernice cut in to address Laura, "Is how you got him…" she hitched a thumb towards Remington, "To agree to this." She looked at Remington from beneath arched brows and smirked. "Aren't you afraid it'll cut into your Wednesday matinees and long lunches?" Laughter erupted around the table and Remington gave her a wide, toothy grin.

"Careful, Mrs. Wolfe, or people might begin to think you're jealous I've never asked you along." Bernice sputtered with indignation, as another round of laughter followed.

"That I… I have never… Jealous?!" she looked at Laura "Laura, I know he's the Boss but I swear to you, one of these days-" Laura held up a hand and Bernice fell silent. Bernice knew as well as Remington did that Laura wouldn't get caught in the middle of their sniping at one another.

"While Mr. Steele will oversee this new leg of security and just like myself will help with training the people we contract with, we're actually bringing in someone else to do the bulk of the heavy lifting."

"Now I want to know how _you_ conned _her_ …" Bernice hitched a thumb in Laura's direction this time, "Into _that_." He pursed his lips and a mischievous twinkle sparkled in his eyes, but he held his silence. Laura was working on short sleep, meaning now was not the time to test her patience.

"I think everyone here except B.B. and Kiara have met my old partner, Murphy Michaels. Mur—"

"This is a joke, right?" Bernice asked, sitting forward in her chair. Seated to Laura's left, Mildred leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms and chuckled. _Things are about to get really interesting around here,_ she speculated silently.

"Can't wait to see how this plays out," she said aloud.

" _Murphy_ ," Laura enunciated the name, making it clear she'd no intention of responding to either remark, "Graduated from Stanford ahead of me; we apprenticed with the same firm; we began at the Remington Steele Agency at the same time; and, we partnered together until he moved to Denver in '83. He founded his own, successful agency which his brother will take over with his departure. Along with overseeing the new division of security, he'll help train on the investigative end of the business."

"Murphy…" Bernice muttered.

"I know we've announced a number of changes. If you have any questions, feel free to come see either of us," Laura invited, as she wrapped up the meeting, "Our doors are always open. In the meantime, let's get—"

"There's one other small matter," Remington spoke up, waving Burton and Celek back down into their chairs, while pointedly avoiding Laura's quizzical eyes . "Some years ago, Mrs. Steele and I ran afoul of a deranged individual by the name of Anthony Roselli, who has spent the last eight years enjoying the hospitality of a Greek prison thanks to our efforts." Noting the fury in Laura's eyes, and Remington's avoidance, Mildred sat up straighter, and watched him with laser focus.

"What's that rat done now?" she asked in an icy voice as a host of possibilities raced through her mind. Killed someone in prison? Sent another sicko after the Steele's? Used some of his former contacts to uncover something in the Boss's past?

"The day before yesterday, Roselli was released from prison in—"

"Nooooooo…" this horrified thought from Bernice.

"What do you mean released!" Mildred protested, angrily. Remington raised his brows at her.

"If you'd allow me to finish…" he suggested with just the right uplift of his lips that she didn't view the request as a recrimination.

"Sorry," she apologized, contritely.

"The day before yesterday," he repeated, "Roselli was released from prison into the hands of the Mexican Federales. They were to deliver him to jail in Mexico where he'd await trial on a laundry list of charges, including murder. Whilst on layover in New York, he attacked his guards and escaped." Bernice gasped while Mildred leapt to her feet, slapping her hands against the conference table and leaning against them.

"That maniac is on the loose?!"

"Mildred, sit down," Laura ordered, softening the words with a pat of the older woman's hand. "It does no one any good to panic," she reminded her soothingly, as she cast an icy look towards her partner and husband.

"This morning we'll have pictures of Roselli distributed to each of you," Remington continued. "If you see him, do not approach him, but feel free to tail him should the opportunity to arise. But please, do not underestimate the man. He's not only deranged, but is also highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat and is likely armed." He turned his eyes to Mildred. "Mildred, darlin', are you up to pulling those pictures together?" Despite her alarm, Mildred understood what Remington wasn't volunteering. Unlike all prior cases, the file on Roselli was not available to the Agency's detectives to peruse at their leisure, but kept under lock and key as there were details contained within that Laura would never want to be general knowledge. Drawing in a deep breath, she put on a brave face and nodded crisply.

"Krebs is on it."

"On that note, then, we're done here this morning," Remington announced. "As Mrs. Steele said earlier, should you have any questions, our doors are always open." Laura shot up from her seat.

"A word, Mr. Steele," she clipped out, as she walked briskly towards the door.

"Of course, Mrs. Steele," he agreed amiably, doing a double-take when he realized all eyes in the room were on him. With a weak smile in their direction, he followed Laura out the door.

"I have twenty on Mrs. Steele," Celek offered.

"Sucker's bet," Zach declared.

"I'll take that bet," Bernice spoke up. Shocked by the news about Roselli, her skin had lost some of its color and her eyes looked dazed. She recalled all to well what Roselli was capable of, and was trying hard to stave off the memories of the days after Laura had been abducted. As she'd photocopied and mailed off the file on him the day prior, she'd never imagined it was because he was on the lam.

"I will too," Mildred piped up, "And I'll match any others." One-by-one, the six investigators in the room added their twenty to the pile on the table, in favor of Laura.

"Easy money," Marvin commented, as he lay down his twenty on the pile.

"I wouldn't count on it," Mildred advised as she pushed herself to her feet.

"When Mr. and Mrs. Steele go at it, she always wins," Warmack noted with confidence.

" _Not_ when it comes to the safety of Mrs. Steele or their family," Mildred dissented. "Let's get to work every one. I'll have those pictures to you within the hour."

* * *

"I thought we'd come to an understanding, Mr. Steele," Laura accused, as Remington shut the door to his office behind him.

"We did," he agreed, loosening his tie as he crossed the room toward his desk.

"Then what the hell was _that?_ " she demanded, sweeping an arm in the direction of the conference room.

"A judicious use of the resources we have at our fingertips," he replied calmly, releasing a pair of buttons at his collar as he sat down in his chair, "And well within the scope of our understanding, in my opinion."

"Well within—" she began, aghast. "We agreed what you'd done already was enough – more than enough!" she rebuked, voice rising. "We agreed to live our lives, to not give him the satisfaction of looking over our shoulders – that's what we agreed to!" His lips thinned, irritated by both her tone and attitude. He took a moment to unbutton his sleeves and roll them up while he got his own precarious temper in check.

"We agreed, despite my every instinct to the contrary, not to alter how we live," he refuted, "And asking our staff to keep their eyes open is in keeping with that agreement." She threw up her hands in frustration and began pacing the room.

"What is it going to take to get through to you?!" she angrily appealed. "Was last night not enough?! Have you already forgotten the state your daughter was in?!" His jaw clenched, the question like a slap in the face. _Forgotten? Why of all…_

"I assure you, I won't be forgetting anytime soon the 'state' my daughter _and my wife_ …" his voice rose on the last words, "…were in last night. Pretend all you wish to be unaffected by Roselli's escape, your dreams say otherwise!"

"I never claimed to be unaffected by his escape," she proclaimed, passionately. "Of course, I'm affected! How could I not be? I may not be able to control what I dream about, but I can control how I react and set limits on what I am and am not willing to sacrifice because of Roselli. And _that?_ " she swept her arm towards the conference room for a second time, "You had no right to make that decision with—"

"Haven't we been down this road a time or two before?" he cut in with a casual tone which was wholly contradicted by the muscle twitching in his jaw, "And haven't I made it patently clear where I stand on this matter?" he asked, standing. "I yield to your judgment on matters multiple times a day nearly without exception – be those matters personal or professional," he emphasized as he leaned his backside against the edge of the desk, then pointed a finger at her and lifted his brows, "and whether or not I wholly agree with you. I do so at home because you have far more experience with children and family than I do, so I trust in your judgment. I do so here at work because this Agency is still far more yours than it will ever be mine. And, in all honesty, there are matters that I cede to you on for no other reason than I know there will be bloody hell to pay if what I wish interferes with your intractable need for control."

"My intractable—" she sputtered.

"What I will _not_ relinquish," he continued, his voice rising, "Is my bloody _right_ to do whatever is necessary to keep this family of ours safe, no matter how much it might run contrary to your insatiable need to prove you are as foolishly capable of holding your ground as any man." Crossing her arms, her chin tipped up, lips clamped together and her eyes shot daggers at him. "I'll honor our little agreement from last evening, but I won't apologize for asking our staff to do what they've bloody well been trained to do, because whether you care to admit it or not, this little pique of yours has nothing to do with my violating our agreement, as I haven't, and _everything_ to do with your bloody pride."

He'd finished on a roar that Laura had no doubt could be heard at the elevator. Had the situation not been so serious, it would have been comical the way her jaw fell open and how her mouth opened and closed as her mind searched for words that would not come in her fury and insult. In the end, she spun on her heel and marched to the door, slinging it open with a growl, then slamming it with enough force that the 'thwack' of door hitting frame rivaled his shout.

With a disgusted flip of his hand towards the door and a 'pfftttt,' he flopped down in his chair to brood.

* * *

Bernice and Zach flinched when Laura slammed Remington's office door behind her. Their eyes followed her as she stalked to Mildred's office, threw the door open and slammed it behind her.

Bernice lifted her hand, holding her palm up beneath Zach's nose.

"Pay up."

* * *

"One of these days I'm going to…" Laura made a choking motion with her hands "…that man," she ranted as soon as the door closed behind her in Mildred's office.

"The Chief?" Mildred feigned surprise, as though the entire eleventh floor hadn't been able to hear Remington when he'd bellowed. She'd just begun debating whether she'd spend her winnings on either the purse or the shoes she'd been eyeing when her door had opened then closed with a bang.

"The nerve… the temerity… the gall," Laura huffed, pacing across the office and back again – a fruitless attempt to burn off some of her ire given said office was only six strides wide. "…To accuse _me_ of having an intractable need for control! Can you believe it?" She gesticulated, indicating herself. "Me!?"

"Well, hon—"

"I am nothing," she cut a hand through the air, "If not flexible." Focused on her thoughts, she missed Mildred's low chuckle. "Did I not agree to have Tank and Dozer with the children when we're not with them? I did. Did I not agree to have Thomas and Catherine move in with us, even though it would mean sacrificing our routines, our time alone together? I did. Did I not overlook _him_ taking a sudden interest in jogging so _he_ could play my personal shadow? I did that as well. But _I_ have an 'intractable need for control'?" she asked, sweeping her arms open.

"Well, I wouldn't—"

"I have been nothing if not accommodating…" she pointed a finger in Mildred's direction "…within reason." She laughed a low, sardonic laugh. "But there is no reasoning with him! The instant…" she snapped her fingers "…we were informed Roselli had escaped he went straight to panic! 'Remington,' I tell him, 'We can't change our entire lives, the children's lives, because of an 'if.' _If_ Roselli isn't apprehended. _If_ Roselli comes to LA. _If_ Roselli is willing to risk life in a Mexican jail to get even with us.' Logic holds that Roselli…" Mildred snorted.

"Well, I wouldn't say logic—"

"…Will go underground if he hopes to remain free. But does that matter to him?" She threw her hands up in the air. "No! It doesn't! If it were left up to _him_ , we'd be on our way to… to… a cabin in the woods in the Himalayans, never to be heard of again until Roselli is caught or dies of old age! But because I'm not willing to turn our lives upside down on all those 'if's', I suddenly have an 'insatiable need to prove I'm as foolishly capable of holding my own grown as any man'!?" she spat out. Mildred chuckled quietly again, as the words echoed a sentiment Remington had expressed years before when Dancer had shown up, determined to silence the witnesses that could put him behind bars for decades.

* * *

 _ **"Ah, she has a point to prove, Mildred."**_

 _ **"What's that?"**_

 _ **"Oh, that a woman with intelligence, determination and a certain amount of training can be as stupidly macho as any man."**_

* * *

"Last night I _thought_ we'd come to an agreement," Laura continued. "Guards on the children, installing a security system at the Rossmore, guards shadowing Thomas and Catherine: All of it was enough… _more_ than enough given all those 'if's'." She stopped pacing, and tipped her head back to regard the ceiling, rubbing at her arms. "It's too much actually," she added in a pensive tone. "Sophie's having nightmares, convinced the bad man is coming for her. _I'm_ having nightmares. And the way he treated his father when Thomas declined moving in with us..." She shook her head, then, finding her steam again, resumed her pacing. "Yet, in spite of all that, despite how I might feel about it…" she swept an arm towards the conference room "…That! And I'm at fault?" Throwing up her hands a final time, she collapsed into a chair across from Mildred, and wearily propped her chin on her fist.

"Awww, honey, it sounds like the two of you have had a time of it," Mildred emphasized.

"The two of us?" she asked, aghast. "The man is driving everyone crazy!" Mildred laughed warmly as she stood up and moved to sit next to Laura.

"He's scared, honey. Heck, so am I," Mildred admitted. "Don't forget, that louse arranged to have me hit by a car!"

"You'd better hope _he_ doesn't remember that, or you'll find yourself locked in a closet somewhere," Laura groused.

"Because he _cares_. That's a pretty darn good thing in my book!" Mildred replied, patting the hand that lay on Laura's lap. "Remember, it wasn't so long ago that you were complaining the Chief was only concerned about his own hide." Laura had never meant during life and death situations… more his failing to recognize that when it came to his little gambits, he didn't put only his own neck on the line but the Agency's as well. She's always known he'd never let any harm come to her if he could prevent it.

"I know he cares," Laura insisted, drawing out the last word at length. "That's not the point! We agreed: Enough is enough," she slashed a hand through the air, "Then he _blindsides_ me in the meeting because he knew I'd never go along with it. What was he thinking!" she demanded to know, leaping to her feet to pace again, while unconsciously rubbing at her brow. "These are investigators we trained. They're going to search for the details, for the answers to any questions they might have about what happened between us and Roselli."

"So, let 'em look," Mildred replied, flippantly, "The only thing they'll be able to find is a couple days of articles reporting your abduction and then a small blurb that you'd been located and were traveling to an undisclosed location for a little bit of r-and-r." Laura shook her head, adamantly.

"That's not what I mean!" she protested. "Roselli leads to Anna," she ticked off on her fingers, "Only Anna isn't Anna but Lydia Van Owen, a woman without a past much like our Mr. Steele! Who knows what digging around in her past might dredge up on him? Did he even stop to consider that? No! He—"

"Good for him!" Mildred praised. Laura rounded to face the woman.

"What?! Good for him?!" she asked, thoroughly flabbergasted.

"Aw, think about it, hon," Mildred encouraged, a smile lighting her face. "Mr. Steele has one of the strongest instincts for self-preservation that I've ever seen," she pressed a palm to her chest in emphasis, then continued, "How many times has he tried to convince you not to take a case because it came a little too close to his past for his comfort?"

* * *

" _ **Believe me, Laura, we want no part of this one… I realize… refusing this case may cost the agency a great deal. Nonetheless, with no questions asked, no explanations demanded, I'm simply asking that you accept my instincts about this on faith and trust me."**_

* * *

"Enough times to be annoying," she conceded.

"Now for the humdinger: When was the last time?"

Laura's lips parted to answer, then closed without a word spoken. Brow furrowed, she crossed her arms and worried her lower lip as she searched for the information. It only took a few seconds for it to come to her, and the memory arrived with stark clarity: October of '92. They'd just celebrated the tenth anniversary of his arrival in her life, when Edward Coxworth, curator of LA Museum of Fine Arts, had come to the Agency to request their services alarming a rather pricey Rembrandt landscape that would be on loan to the museum for three weeks. The meeting had been progressing nicely until Coxworth had mentioned the name of the painting, _Landscape with Cottages._ The shift in Remington's body language had been so minute, it wouldn't have registered with anyone but herself. He'd spoken with casual ease with Coxworth about the storied history of the painting which had been stolen and recovered no less than two times. When he'd announced…

"Mrs. Steele, shall we caucus for a moment?"

...he'd confirmed her suspicions. The door had barely closed behind them before she'd hissed…

"Tell me you weren't part of that painting's 'storied history'."

"It was June of '72. I'd done a couple small jobs here and there with a bit of success and was ready to test my skills with something a bit more challenging," his whispered account tumbling out quickly. "Word had spread through the streets that a private collector, Liam König, was willing to pay fifty-thousand dollars to the individual who returned _Landscape with Cottages_ to its rightful owner: Him, of course. The painting had been stolen from his grandfather's house some twenty-seven years prior and König had vowed to one day see it restored to his family. Well, fifty-thousand was more quid that I had seen in a lifetime and would sustain me in a modest lifestyle for some time to come. The heist went off with a hitch and I collected the reward with no issue. Two days later, the streets were chattering again: The coppers had a witness who'd seen the thief and were circulating a composite that was supposedly a fair likeness of myself. Needless to say, I disappeared into the wind, but should that composite still be in circulation…" He left her to finish the thought for herself.

"I think you're worrying over nothing," she assured and ticking off the reasons why. "Composites from that time were notoriously non-descript, making it impossible for anyone to say with true certainty who it was. It was twenty years ago! Not only have the statute of limitations run out, but given König hired you to recover the painting for him, he'd have no quarrel with you." The crooked smile he gave her made her steel herself for what was to come.

"Mmmm, except for one… minor… detail." Her eyes narrowed.

"Oh? What is that?" The corner of his mouth lifted further upwards portending bad news.

"The painting was stolen one more time…" he raised his brows "…for the man I'd relieved of it. As it would turn out, König's grandfather wasn't the rightful owner of the painting but the original thief."

"Of course, he was," she retorted with an eye roll. She quickly did a mental calculation of risk versus benefits. "Kiara and Brandon can install the system and we'll do the walk through and inspection after hours when there won't be many people around. Keep your head down, but we can't pass this job up: It'll pay the Agency's bills for a month."

He'd put up a cursory argument, but it had been made for form's sake, more than anything else.

 _Come to think on it,_ she frowned now, _He hadn't exactly kept his head down, either._

"Mrs. Steele?" Mildred prodded, her unanswered question still on the table.

"Two years. It's been two years." Mildred had given her food for thought, but it would have to wait until later as there was another matter on the floor. "But that's not the point, Mildred," she sighed, collapsing into the chair next to the older woman. "We can't live like this. Sophie is a wreck," she held a hand out palm up and nodded, "And you know how Livvie is when it comes to Soph."

"Crying buckets for her sister, huh?" Mildred commiserated.

"Yes," Laura huffed. "The only person in the Steele household to get a full night's sleep was Holt. The girls went to school cranky, I'm exhausted, _he's_ exhausted and I don't expect tonight will be any better."

"What's got Sophie so stirred up, huh?" Laura lifted her brows and sighed again.

"Tank and Dozer, would be my guess. They guarded us while we were in Twin Pines under similar circumstances."

"So tell them to skedaddle," Mildred advised.

"I can't," Laura protested. "Remington trusts them and I agreed. I never imagined Soph would react like she has, although in hindsight maybe I should have."

"Then tell them not to be obvious," Mildred suggested.

"I can't do that either!" Laura winced when her words verged on a whine. Pressing a palm to her face, she sought a more authoritative tone. Dropping her hand, she pointed at Mildred. "Between us girls," she began, "The school is our most vulnerable point. Even though my instincts are telling me he'll go underground, I'm not willing to gamble with the children's safety."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Mildred interjected, cheekily. Laura gave her a sour look.

"We not only need eyes watching for someone who may not belong," she continued, refusing to acknowledge the comment, "But someone capable of taking on Roselli if he shows." Mildred mulled the information while thrumming her fingers against the armrest. She stood abruptly and circled around the desk. Taking her seat, she quickly scrawled a note on a piece of paper then handed it across the desk to Laura. With a quizzical look Mildred's way, she opened the paper and skimmed what was written there.

"Mildred! Vacation? Now?" Mildred smiled and shrugged a shoulder.

"It's the perfect solution," she proclaimed, triumphantly. "We don't have anything going on that Marvin and BB can't handle. I'll volunteer at the school, and Tank and Dozer can make like ghosts: Invisible until summoned." Laura's mouth fell open and her eyes widened at the gesture – a tempting one at that. It could be the perfect remedy for assuaging Sophie's fears, but…

"I can't let you use your vacation to watch the girls, Mildred. They're for relaxing and enjoying yourself not—" Mildred frowned mightily.

"Listen, Mrs. Steele," she interrupted, sternly, "Those vacation days are mine to do what I want with and there's nothing I enjoy more than spending time with those three kids. Those kiddos of yours are the closest I'll ever come to grandchildren, and if there is something I can do to stop one of them from being frightened, then that's what I'm gonna do." Laura blinked a pair of times at the authoritative tone, then grinned.

"Well," she drew out the word, "The school is always asking for volunteers…" Her smile faded. "Thanks, Mildred, I think you may be right and this is exactly what Sophie needs." Her eyes flickered towards the office door. "Have any solutions for _him?_ " Mildred regarded her, thoughtfully.

"Can an old-… er woman offer a bit of advice?"

"By all means." Hadn't she just asked for precisely that, after all?

"Mr. Steele is content to let you run the show most of the time. Why wouldn't he be? You're damned good at it. Oh, he'll kick up a fuss here and there just to annoy you…" She gave Laura a pointed look. "Or to remind you it's not a one woman show and he has a say in it. But when it comes to you and those kids? You may as well forget about trying out-stubborn him or plowing over him. It ain't happening. That…" she swept her hand in the direction of the conference room much as Laura had "…In there this morning? Big deal! You need to pick your battles, honey, because once the guy plants his feet about something that matters to him, there's no one who's gonna budge him – even you - and we both know it." With a sour face, Laura crossed her arms and muttered indiscernibly beneath her breath, drawing a laugh from her confidant. "My advice? You'd be smart to let him have the little things, because if you keep fighting him on every decision, you're gonna find yourself in those woods in the Himalayans before you can bat an eye, if only to prove to you he has as much a say in all this as you do." Laura scowled.

"You make it sound like this is nothing more than a battle for the upper hand and it's not. It's about him panicking and overreacting."

"Not a battle for the upper hand… A battle of the sexes," Mildred corrected.

"That's ridiculous," Laura guffawed, flicking a wrist at the air as she stood. "It's no such thing."

"I wouldn't count on that, Mrs. Steele," Mildred advised, as she stood as well. "You two kids are always defying convention, not giving a hoot about what tradition or others say about a man's role or a woman's. You run a business, pay the bills and manage the budget. He does the cooking and all the shopping. You lay down the law at work and home and he follows it…" She barked a short laugh as she sank down in her desk chair "…Well. At least when he feels like it. " Laura's snort of laughter and rueful smile said she agreed. "But, hon, sometimes a man – especially when it comes to his wife and children – needs to be the man - the provider…" she lifted her brows at Laura "… and the protector." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just saying, that thing this morning? The guy doesn't flex his muscles very often, so maybe on the rare occasions when he does he's earned a right to an uncontested win here and there. Just something to think about."

"Thanks, Mildred," Laura answered, a bit dazed. One conversation had revealed she'd possibly missed a pair of rather important pieces to the puzzle that was her husband's psyche and that possibility deeply disturbed her. Closing the door behind her, she resolved to spend some time giving Mildred's points serious consideration.

But, of course, that wasn't meant to be.

"Laura, Meyerson's on the phone and says it's urgent."

With a longing glance in the direction of her office, she heaved a sigh.

"Give me thirty seconds then transfer the call to Mr. Steele's office."

Reflection would have to wait…


	29. Chapter 25: Appearances

Chapter 25: Appearances

Remington's eyes darted in Laura's direction for the umpteenth time during their drive to West Rancho Dominguez. Dingo, as Laura had predicted, had come through for them with a name and address: Dana Smith on Nestor. That it was a woman had surprised them both, at first, and then any number of perfectly reasonable explanations as to why a woman might develop the pictures had followed. Still, she couldn't help but mull why it was people, herself included, automatically assumed an unknown robber meant unknown male robber. She and Remington might 'defy conventions,' as Mildred had said, but their attitudes could still be unintendedly stereotypical.

Observing the outer edge of Laura's brow twitch, Remington knew she was masticating on something, but he was unsure what. They'd yet to address their little dust up in his office, this current trip they were on would almost certainly impede on her luncheon with her father – which she hadn't made a single mention of, even if only to postpone - and, a rarity, he was having difficulty assessing her mood. She'd been undoubtedly furious when she slammed out of his office, but on her return, distracted as they'd been the series of phone calls rolling in, conversation has been strictly business and her demeanor icy calm. Since departing for Photomat she'd been neither overly vociferous nor coolly detached, engaging pleasantly when addressed but otherwise remaining silent and lost within her thoughts.

Meyerson, still mindful that years before the INS had bungled transferring Roselli far and away from the Steele's, had been incited when he'd called, vowing to reach out to every contact he had within the INS to find out how this had happened and to demand their involvement in capturing their former agent. They hadn't quite finished their call with Meyerson when the intercom buzzed and Bernice informed them Jarvis was waiting in the reception area to speak with them.

Jarvis had simply been disgusted when he'd received the nationwide BOLO for Roselli and after leaving his initial message had decided news of the man's escape was better delivered in person. It shouldn't have surprised him, of course, the Steele's were already aware of the situation, given they always seemed to be a step ahead of him. Nevertheless, he offered them some assurances of his own: Every cop in the LA area had the BOLO in hand and he'd arranged twice-hourly patrols at the children's school and on Casa Malaga for the foreseeable future.

Jarvis had just exited the Agency doors when the intercom in Remington's office sounded again, Dingo's call heralding their own departure through those same doors.

"Interesting chap, Dingo," he commented, in the hopes of drawing her into conversation.

"Interesting… He is that," she harrumphed.

"I'm sure Dingo meant it as a compliment," he offered, grinning even though his eyes regarded her with caution. She cast a sour look in his direction as she recalled that 'compliment.'

"…he was all, like, 'Dude, how do you know she won't tell people where she got the info?' And I told him, 'Dude, she's cool for an old chick, like, reminds me of the madre.'"

"Yes, quite the compliment," she replied, drily, then added with a smirk in his direction, "Old timer." The reminder was greeted by some disgruntled grunting of his own.

"Still, your instinct he'd come through for us was dead on," he complimented. She flashed him a quick smile, then fell silent again. Over the next couple minutes as they continued towards their destination, his eyes darted to her several times, still trying to determine where her head was. _Bugger it_ , he finally decided. "Laura, should I be prepared to keep company with the sofa this evening? Hmmm?" She slowed the car at the intersection and turned to study him. With a crinkle of her nose, she turned her head away to check for oncoming traffic, then turned right.

"To be frank, it's taken all my energy to focus on the case, so I really haven't given it any thought." His brow quirked upwards.

"I should have to find more pleasant ways to keep you exhausted at all times if it means I fair better in these things," he joked.

"I've always preferred swift justice myself," she rebutted. "Waiting to find out what my punishment was to be was always worse than the punishment itself."

"Abigail's infamous silent treatments?" he speculated. She gave her head a brief shake, as she depressed the brakes of the Explorer and flipped the left turn signal.

"No, that's never really bothered me," she shrugged. "My father didn't involve himself in our discipline often, but when he did…" She let the thought trail off as she punched the gas and cut across oncoming traffic onto a side street.

"Harsh?" he guessed again.

"Not at all," she replied. "He believed in accountability, ownership of your actions. Even as a little girl I understood whatever decision he made would come at the cost of a little pride." She smiled and laughed softly as she pulled the Explorer into a driveway three houses down on the right. "I hated it." He lifted his brows at her and smiled.

"I imagine you did." Having to sacrifice a bit of her pride would have been nearly as painful for Laura as the whippings meted out in the orphanage where he'd spent a brief portion of his childhood.

Reaching for the door handle, he climbed out of the Explorer, buttoning his jacket while waiting for her to join him. Together, they walked to the front door and knocked. Waited, then rang the doorbell. When a second round of knocking on the door went unanswered, they split up. A walk around the perimeter confirmed no life within the four walls.

Laura glanced at her watch as they got back into the Explorer. She was to meet her father for lunch in just shy of an hour and she had no way of contacting him to cancel. Frankly, not that she'd admit as much aloud, she was hoping this break in the case would provide cause to miss their planned meeting altogether. Whether that desire might have influenced her next decision, she chose not to analyze. Starting the Explorer, she backed out of the driveway and drove further down the street before turning the SUV around and parking it next to the curb two-doors down and on the opposite side of the street.

"Waiting her out, then, are we?" Remington inquired.

"It seems the most expedient solution," Laura shrugged, lowering the windows then turning off the engine. The beautiful autumn day meant there was no need to keep the air conditioning running while they waited. "The sooner we find out who that picture was printed for, the sooner we can wrap this up." A single brow shot up.

"We could be here all day," he pointed out. "We've no idea if she just popped round to the store, is at work or, for that matter, if she's absconded with her part of the take." Her eyes continually shifted between the house they were surveilling and the street.

"All part of the job, Mr. Steele," she replied with a breezy air.

"Yes," he agreed, elongating the word, "But given the other matters we have to attend to today, I have to wonder if our time would be better served elsewhere." She feigned ignorance.

"Oh? And what matters might those be? As far as I know this is the most pressing case on our desks at the moment." _Ahhh, so that's how we're going to play it, eh?_ Short on sleep himself, he found he wasn't particularly interested in participating in the tap dance his lovely partner and wife seemed to have in mind.

"I seem to recall mention of a luncheon today, to start." She grimaced openly. There were times she longed for the days when he only pretended to listen.

"We can't risk missing our suspect, Mr. Steele. I'd call and cancel but I have no way of reaching him." The excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears, and he called her on it.

"It's a good thing, then, that we have employees we pay to sit stakeouts. Isn't it? Hmmmm?" She lifted a pair of fingers to knead her brow. His heart ached for her, but ceding to her desire to avoid meeting with her father on this day would only lead her to kick herself for what she would deem as cowardice on self-reflection. "Postponing it won't make it any easier, love," he told her in a gentle voice, "Most likely just the opposite." Laying her head against the headrest, she closed her eyes.

"You're right," she reluctantly agreed. Opening her eyes, she rolled her head to the side to look at him. "I know you're right," she reaffirmed. "A person shouldn't dread seeing their own father," she protested.

"Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but I'd say in your particular circumstance, some hesitation is more than understandable," he reasoned. She gave him a weak smile, then using a good deal of what was left of her flagging energy, she reached for her purse. In short order, she had her cell phone in hand, and ringing at her ear.

"Zach Burton," Zach answered.

"Zach, it's Laura Steele. Are you and Celek doing anything you can't break free from?"

"Not at all. Just canvassing some pawn shops. What's up?" Laura watched as Remington made himself comfortable in the corner created by his seat and the door, laying his head against the seat and closing his eyes.

"I need the two of you to sit on a house then call Mr. Steele and I when someone returns home." She rattled off the address. "How long will it take you to get here?"

"We should be there in under fifteen." She nodded her head absently.

"We'll see you then. And Zach? Thank you." Disconnecting the call, she closed the phone and dropped it back into her purse.

She laughed silently at the realization Remington was fast asleep. How the man could fall to sleep in an instant – _anywhere_ – was still a marvel to her. Curled up against a tree trunk in freezing weather; huddled inside a drainpipe beneath a busy freeway; slumped over in a hard, unyielding folding chair in a loud, smelly XXX theater; or, folded into the seat of a car – it didn't matter: When sleep beckoned, he'd find a way. With a fond smile, she reached over and gently smoothed that stubborn lock of hair back off his forehead, then settled more comfortably in her own seat, and waited for Burton and Celek to arrive.

* * *

Laura's feet stalled outside the diner's doors. With a palm patting her stomach, she closed her eyes then drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Sleep deprived after a difficult night, her normally steel-like defenses had been reduced to poorly glued popsicle sticks and a date with a rather painful past was the last thing she needed today. Cancelling, however, hadn't been an option: She wouldn't give her father the satisfaction of knowing just how difficult these meetings were. So, with a brief nod of her head, she opened her eyes, tipped up her chin, squared her shoulders and walked through the front doors of the diner.

She located Jack at the rear of the diner, sitting in a booth at the window, watching the street, presumably for her. He wouldn't have seen her arrival as she'd come in from the other direction. Spotting her when she was only a few steps away, he quickly slid out of the booth, and before she knew what was happening he'd wrapped her in his arms in a hug. The unexpected overture left her standing limply in his embrace, neither returning the affectionate gesture nor shoving him away.

"It's so good to see you, Laura," he greeted, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before releasing her. She sought distance, sliding into the booth on the opposite side of where he'd been sitting. The waitress appeared with menus and to take Laura's drink order before her father was fully seated again. "I can't tell you how happy I was when you called."

"I want to be honest with you," Laura informed him, "I still have no idea how I feel about _any_ of this. My first instinct is to say you had your chance and you chose to walk away, but I want to be fair about it which means I have to give weight to the father you were before you left. However, I have more questions that I need answers to before I can make a decision either way."

"I'm just glad we're spending some time together," Jack replied, reaching for her hand across the table and clasping it in his. She flinched, again not having anticipated the move. The waitress's return provided the perfect excuse for breaking that contact as Laura eased her hand from Jack's to take coffee cup and saucer from the woman. Clutching the cup in both hands, she leaned back in her seat as they gave the waitress their orders.

"No rabbit food?" Laura wondered. Jack grinned at her.

"I think my first meal in twenty years with my daughter counts as a special occasion, don't you?" Her brow twitched.

"A rare one, at least," she commented, then took a sip of her coffee. "Was there a time when you and Mother were happy?" Whether the nature of the question or because it had come from out of the blue, she had no idea which, Jack was taken off-balance and had to take a moment to formulate an answer.

"There was a time when we were very happy." A frown flickered across her face and she took a sip of her coffee. She'd found her thoughts wandering to the past often in the weeks since her father's appearance, and she'd yet to discover a single memory where Abigail and Jack had expressed real affection towards one another.

"What happened to change that?"

"Time," he shrugged. "Abby was barely nineteen when we met. I was only twenty-one. She was a Connecticut debutante and I was a middle-class kid from LA. She thought my spontaneity and refusal to take anything too seriously was exciting and I found her primness, her perfect manners and old-fashioned ideas fascinating. You know the saying 'opposites attract'?" She tilted her head back and forth, acknowledging she knew the old adage.

"Of course."

"We married a week after I graduated from Yale and our first four years of marriage were good. Really good," he smiled. "When we moved to Palo Alto, we had this tiny one-bedroom apartment. I think the entire apartment would have fit in the living room and dining room at the house in West Adams. Abby called it an adventure and enjoyed making a home out of the small space. When Frances came along, she set up a crib for her in the corner of our bedroom, making the best out of things without complaint. After I graduated, we moved to LA and found a small two-bedroom apartment to rent. We lived there for a year before the first signs of trouble came along."

"What happened?" Laura prompted when he fell briefly silent.

"In the Fall of '55 she was late in her pregnancy with you. Frances was four, full of energy and bouncing off the walls. Abby insisted we had to buy a house before you arrived. She couldn't possibly fit a crib into Frances's room for you. Frances needed a yard to play in to burn off some of that energy, especially with a new baby in the house. She'd been a good sport about where we'd lived up until then, so what could I say? We moved into the house the first week in December that year."

"Did things get better?" Despite herself, she was getting caught up in the tale. Her parents had never shared the story of those early years – at least not that she could recall.

"Not for a long time," he shook his head. "She drove herself crazy. Every box had to be unpacked and put away. Every room in the house had to be perfect. The Christmas decorations, tree and the presents under it had to be perfect. I thought it would get better after the holidays were over, but I was wrong. She cleaned the house, obsessively, insisting she couldn't bring you home to 'such filth' – nesting my mother called it. Whatever it was, my first thought when she went into labor was 'Thank God, this insanity is finally over.'"

"But it wasn't," she speculated, quietly. He sighed heavily.

"Not by a long shot. Abby believed we'd have the perfect family after she delivered…" he looked at her apologetically. "The perfect daughter followed by the perfect son. When you were born, she was heartbroken. I think that might have been the first time in Abby's life that something hadn't gone exactly according to her plan." Laura took the news in stride. It wasn't, after all, a revelation.

"And you. Were you disappointed as well?"

"At first," he admitted. "Every man wants a son. I'm sure your husband felt a similar let down when your second daughter arrived." A small smile flitted across her face.

"Not at all actually," she dissented, not bothering to correct his assumption all three children had been born to them. "Our daughter had him wrapped around her little finger from the moment she was born and he was determined our second would be another little girl. I was the one hoping for a boy."

* * *

 _ **"Did our little Aislin Rose allow you to rest?"**_

 _ **"Yes,**_ _ **Holt Fitzgerald**_ _ **did."**_

* * *

"Then you must have been disappointed," he speculated. She took another sip of her coffee, then slowly shook her head.

"No. Remington and I have long been in agreement that we would never regret for even a second any child that arrived in our lives," she shared, neatly sidestepping the issue of Sophie's adoption. Jack waited until the waitress dropped their platters of burger and fries in front of them and departed.

"Abby had a hard time after you were born. We all did, really, but not like her," he shared as he slathered mustard and ketchup on his burger. "She insisted you didn't like her. You wouldn't feed except from a bottle. You didn't cry often, but when you did she couldn't calm you and it didn't take long before she was crying too." _No wonder why she couldn't calm me,_ Laura mulled. Remington's normally relaxed nature had been a Godsend when Livvie had colic. "Thank God for Mom. She lived with us for almost six months, taking care of you and Frances while Abby slept and cried day in and day out. It was only a couple of weeks before Frances started school that Abby pulled it together."

"And then?" He took a bite of his hamburger and while chewing lifted and dropped a hand.

"Things were better, at least for a while. Business was good, Abby seemed happy…" he frowned "…At least for her. We'd been married for almost a decade when she started talking about having another kid. As far as I was concerned, I was done. We had two kids, which was one more than my parents had. It was enough. Abby and I fought it out, and I finally gave in. After we lost your brother, things were never the same. She locked herself away again. Mom said she was grieving, but I knew better. She blamed me as though I had somehow willed him not to make it." He flicked a dismissive hand. "It didn't matter though. Even though Abby wouldn't admit it, we both knew our marriage was over. All those differences we'd appreciated in the beginning had become problems. She'd become more uptight and was always worried about how things looked and what people thought. Hell, the only reason we shared a bedroom was because she was so worried about how it would look if we didn't. She was too hard of you and your sister, constantly trying to shove her old-fashioned ideas down your throats. The world was changing and she didn't see it, but I did. In the end we had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, but a whole world of things to fight about. I spent ten miserable years watching my life pass by while trying to convince her to end the marriage. I couldn't do it anymore." Laura stared at her plate where she twirled a fry through a puddle of ketchup.

"So why that day?" _Of all days,_ she added silently.

"It's not as though I woke up that morning and said 'today's the day', Laura," he replied with a harsh edge to the words. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing.

"I believe it was more 'tonight's the night', wasn't it?" she shot back. Scowling, his lips parted, fully prepared to remind her he was still her father but stopped when the look on her face made it clear she'd be out the door before he finished.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you," he apologized, with a sigh. "It isn't exactly easy for me talk about, you know. This is a time in my life that I worked hard to put out of my mind." Her eyes widened and her lips parted, amazed. _Does he hear himself?_

"And it's any easier for me?" she challenged. He scrubbed at his face with a hand.

"That's not what I meant, Laura," he replied, resignedly. "Let me give this another shot. Please?"

"By all means," she agreed stiffly. He could hardly do worse than he'd done already, the way she figured it… Not to mention, if she stormed off, her questions would remain unanswered, demanding that they meet again.

"I was forty-three-years-old, about your husband's age." Pushing his plate to the side, he leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, speaking quickly and softly. "I'd been married for more than twenty years, unhappily for half that time. I'd asked Abby for a divorce more times than I could count, but she didn't care how miserable we _both_ were as long as she didn't become the center of gossip. Each day that passed was one less day that I'd have a chance to be happy. I played her game at first, thinking if I just gave her some time, she'd agree. Years passed; years of coming home dreading what that night would be filled with after you and Frances went to bed: Arguments or cold silence. I was in my mid-thirties, my prime. Eventually I decided that if Abby wanted a marriage in name only, she could have it. I found reasons to leave after you and Frances were in bed: I joined a bowling league and played cards three nights a week at the Lodge. I joined the Club and played golf and tennis on the weekends. I had a couple of discrete affairs." Her eyes widened at the admission, but she vowed to set aside her questions until he was finished. "I didn't try to hide them from Abby. Why bother? She had no more illusions than I did about the state of our marriage. She didn't care that I had turned to another woman, only whether or not my affair reached the rumor mill. We lived like that for another seven years, each new year more difficult than the one before." Her commitment to hold her questions until he was finished evaporated.

"Then why didn't you just move out and file?" she posited with unhidden frustration. He shifted in his seat with some frustration of his own.

"My marriage might have been over for a decade, but Abby was still my wife. It would have killed her to have a divorce provide fodder for the gossip mills, which it would have I had moved out. Then there was you and Frances to consider: How would the two of you be affected if the divorce played out in the public eye? Divorce then was far different then than it is now: It brought shame on the family."

"And Frances and I instead being those 'poor Holt girls whose father abandoned them' was the better choice?" she challenged, coolly.

"That wasn't my intent," he retorted passionately. "I felt like a man in a cage – trapped! – watching years of my life passing by but not living! The night I left, I hadn't planned on it. It was one argument too many, the _same_ argument we'd been having for years! When I left, I took the clothes on my back and two suitcases. I needed time and space. I needed to _breathe_. But once I checked into that hotel in Lancaster I realized: This was it: This was my chance to be finally happy. Staying in that marriage wasn't making anyone happy. Abby was miserable. I was miserable. And what were we teaching you and Frances, about relationships? Given the cold, lifeless home you grew up in, it's a miracle neither of you ended up in a relationship that lacked warmth, vitality… passion; that you didn't settle for a relationship consumed with worries about propriety and appearance instead of defined by love and happi—" Her precarious self-control, weakened by lack of sleep, snapped.

"For the record," she said in a hard staccato, "I don't look back on my childhood and remember a cold, lifeless home." Realizing her raised voice had drawn the interest of several nearby diners, she lowered it. "I remember Mother being Mother and Frances worrying over the latest style or who would ask her to prom; I remember circuses, _Atomic Man_ , and a box of Parlay's for me at Christmas; and, I remember you! You teaching me to ride a bike, how to dance with a young man one day and how to throw a devastating knuckleball. Was it the warmest of homes? No! It wasn't. Did Frances and I grow up seeing displays of affection between you and Mother? No! We didn't…" She paused, dropping her head and blinking her lashes to ward off the threatening tears. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she spoke more calmly. "It wasn't the perfect home, but it was _our_ home. Frances and I never had to worry about where our next meal would come from or how to live without electricity for a couple of days because the bill wasn't paid. If Frances and I were sick or hurt…" she lifted and dropped a hand "…or simply scared, we knew you or Mother would be there to help us through, to make it better. It may not have been the perfect childhood, but it wasn't a horrible one. It was reliable and it was safe. _That's_ what mattered to us."

"You deserved more," he countered.

"Do you have any idea what my first thought is when someone asks me about my childhood?" she asked, rhetorically, continuing before he could speak. "'He left.' You left, taking with you every bit of security and safety I'd ever known. Did you ever stop to think what your leaving might do to me?" He held his tongue, assuming she expected no answer again. "Do you?" she demanded to know after a lengthy pause.

"I knew you'd be upset," he admitted with reluctance, then defended, "But you had school and all your activities to keep you busy. I knew Mom would be there for you when you needed her. You were such a strong kid, Laura, I thought you'd be fine."

"You didn't think of me, at all!" she countered, fiercely, then stopped to calm her racing heart. She took a long drink of her coffee, refusing to meet his eyes, before speaking again. "I was just a kid, barely sixteen, and all of a sudden I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. It was up to me to pay the bills, buy the groceries, schedule the repairman. I had to arrange transportation for myself to and from school. I quit softball for a long while because I couldn't stand the pitying looks I'd get from the other parents when they realized there was no one there to support me. I started sneaking out, going to parties, running around with boys and neglecting my studies. I was having a breakdown, and there was no one there to help me because the parent I turned to, the parent I counted on to help me when I was confused or hurt, was the very parent who'd abandoned me! You're damned right I deserved more!" He held out his hands, palms up, in a helpless gesture.

"Laura, I had no idea—"

"You didn't want to know," she interrupted to accuse. "If you'd asked you might have felt obligated to come home, and that would have given me false hope, remember?" she reminded him, throwing his own words back at him. Releasing an irritated puff of air, she crossed her arms, and averted her eyes. If she continued along this path, she'd be out the door in no time flat. "What made you decide to stay in Lancaster?" Jack plopped the final piece of his burger in his mouth, relaxing a little as they returned to what he hoped would be safer ground.

"There wasn't one specific thing," he shared. "I'd lived in LA my whole life, except when I went to school. Lancaster was large enough to feel like a city, but it wasn't as fast paced. Housing was more affordable in LA, and Lancaster had a great client base – plenty of potential customers. It just seemed a good fit, and I was sure I'd made the right decision after meeting Pam. Turned out I was wrong about that."

"Oh?" She looked at the waitress who'd just refilled her coffee. "Thank you."

"Is something wrong with your burger? I can have the kitchen remake it or I can get you something else," the server offered.

"Best burger in town," Laura smiled. "We've just been talking."

"If you need anything, just let me know." With those final words, the young woman left to help a customer craning his neck at her.

"You were saying…" Laura prompted.

"Pam was vibrant, a true free spirit." He gave Laura a rueful look. "And fourteen years younger than me. I met her a month-and-a-half, maybe two, after I arrived in Lancaster. I hadn't felt so alive, so invigorated since the early days of my marriage to your mother. And her boys? They were just great kids, we connected immediately. They'd lost their father two years before and had missed having a man in their life. Pam and I married right after my divorce was finalized. We didn't make it five years."

"Dare I ask why?"

"I was getting closer to fifty and was ready to slow down and Pam was in her early thirties, still wanting to go-go-go. We eventually came to an impasse. She moved out in late '77 taking the boys with her. A month later she'd found someone else. I filed the divorce papers, closed down the office and moved to Ridgeline."

"And the boys? Did you tell them you were leaving? Or did they wake up one morning and just find you'd left?" Jack threw up his hands, agitated.

"Laura—"

"No," she shook her head adamantly, "I really am curious. The boys were too important to you to come home when I needed you. Were they important enough to merit a conversation… a phone call… _a postcard?_ " His lips thinned, much as his daughter's would when her temper was pricked.

"You can't compare the situations, Laura," he rebuffed. "They were just kids and had already lost one father and were about to lose another. I owed—" He stopped speaking when the cell phone in Laura's purse began to ring.

"Excuse me." Opening her purse, she removed the cell, flipped it open and answered it. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Steele, it's Zack. Your suspect just arrived."

"Have you notified Mr. Steele?"

"He'll be my next call."

"Alright. I can be there in twenty. Sit on the house until Mr. Steele or I arrive to relieve you." Disconnecting the call, she put the phone back in her purse then took out her wallet. "I have to go." Jack held up a hand and shook his head.

"Lunch is on me," he insisted, quickly following her from the booth. This time, she anticipated the attempted embrace and neatly side stepped while wrapping her arms around herself protectively.

"I have to go. We have a case that needs our attention." She rubbed at her arms. "I'll… call you." She took a pair of steps towards the door then returned to him. "Adam would have been fifteen when you left." She took in his look of shock when he realized he'd never told her the boy's age and all that implied. "I was only a few months older than him when I lost my father with no explanation…" she shook her head and rubbed at her arms again "… no warning, taking what was left of my childhood with him." Turning her head towards the window, she blinked several times before she gathered herself and returned a pair of mournful brown eyes upon the man in front of her. "I was just a kid, too."

With those final words she turned and left the diner, never looking back.


	30. Chapter 26: Inequities

Chapter 26: Inequities

Remington startled awake, having dozed off for the second time that morning. How he and Laura had survived – not all that long ago – on little to no sleep, he had no idea. As it was, the couch had beckoned to him as soon as he'd walked into his office, its siren call promising restorative rest, if only he'd agree. He'd steadfastly resisted the temptation… only to nod off at his desk. He muttered an oath beneath his breath when the insistent buzz of the intercom announced what had awoken him.

"Yes, Mrs. Wolf?"

"Murphy's on line one. He asked for Laura. Should I—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Wolf," he cut her off. Dropping his feet from the corner of the desk, he stabbed at the blinking light indicating the line on hold.

"Steele, here," he greeted.

"Steele, can't you just answer with a 'hello' like ordinary people?" Murphy grumbled.

"Why be ordinary when one is meant to stand out?" Remington inserted with more than a little snobbery in his tone and an unseen mischievous grin. "I'll leave the ordinary to you salt of the earth types."

"If by salt of the earth types you mean law abiding, dependable—"

"Dull… predictable," Remington stepped in to offer. Murphy forced a sputter of outrage that fizzled into laughter, Remington's own laugh joining in.

"I only have a few minutes. Is Laura around?" Remington leaned back in his chair and propped his feet back on the corner.

"'Fraid not. She had a lunch meeting 'cross town she couldn't get out of." Murphy focused on the announcement coming from the loudspeaker above him, then returned his attention to their conversation with a frown.

"And you're not sticking to her glue?" His disapproval was clear.

"You know how Laura is…" Remington replied, lifting his hand to gnaw at his thumbnail. Murphy nodded his head: He did know how she was.

"Isn't having it, huh?" Remington laughed ruefully.

"Not if I wish to continue enjoying a happy marriage, at least."

"I feel for you, pal," Murphy emphasized. "Look, my flight's getting ready to board. The NYPD have had the airports, train and bus stations covered since Roselli's escape. So far, there's been no sign of him. The good news is security footage review of the same doesn't show him getting out of New York through those routes. Roselli's father was interviewed within hours of discovery of his escape. He cooperated fully."

"When Laura and I met with his father…" He paused and reviewed his memory for the date, "Nearly eight years ago, he'd written Antony off. It was his mother who'd continued to support him up until his imprisonment.

"His mother passed in '88," Murphy told him. "The police have cleared his father: He hasn't spoken to Roselli since he went to prison, hasn't seen him since the escape and has no idea where he'd go. The police have kept the house under surveillance and there's been no movement. I'm hoping a more in depth interview of Colonel Roselli might reveal a place that means something to Roselli where he'd go to lay low." He swung his head towards the ceiling again. "Hey, that's my flight. I gotta go."

"Have a good dinner on us, mate. Spare no expense," Remington offered. It was the least they could do, given Murphy had dropped everything to pursue Roselli.

"And I won't," Murphy grinned. "Tell Laura I'll call after I talk to the Colonel."

Remington dropped the handset in the cradle after Murphy hung up then leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at his face with his hands. A glance at his desk served to remind him he'd been reviewing the schematics of the suite next door delivered that morning by a courier for Meredith when he'd fallen asleep. With a shake of his head to clear the cobwebs of sleep, he stood and walked to his bathroom. A couple splashes of cool water helped clear his head further and a cup of hot coffee from his and Laura's private kitchen would provide the boost of caffeine he needed to make it through the afternoon. He'd barely settled in at his desk again before the intercom buzzed. With a sigh, he punched at it with a finger.

"Yes, Mrs. Wolf."

"Zach's on one for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wolf." He once again depressed the blinking button to line one. "Steele, here."

"Mr. Steele, it's Zach. Your suspect just turned up. I've already notified Mrs. Steele."

"Good man," Remington answered, already getting to his feet and rolling down a shirt sleeve, buttoning it. "I should be there in under twenty."

Disconnecting the line, he rolled down the second sleeve, buttoned his collar and tightened his tie before shrugging back into his suit jacket.

"Mrs. Wolf, should Laura call, tell her I'm on my way," he instructed Bernice briskly as he strode through the reception area towards the Agency doors. Her eyes narrowed at his crisp tone, the command and the lack of a please or thank you.

"Aye, aye, Mr. Steele," she replied, standing and giving him a mock salute. "Anything else, sir?" He paused with his hand on the door. Exhausted though he might be, he was never too tired to inflame Bernice's temper when such an occasion arose.

"Yes, now that you mention it. See to it Laura has a fresh pot of coffee awaiting her return." He pushed open the door slightly, then stopped again with a snap of his fingers. "Tea for me. Darjeeling. You'll need to run to the market to pick some up. Make sure its steeped." Bernice's lips thinned, and he would have sworn he saw steam coming out her ears. Which meant only one thing… "Oh, and Bernice? I'd prefer to be referred to as 'my Lord,' if you don't mind." His smile widened at Bernice's growl.

"I'll 'my Lord,' you!" she threatened. He was so busy congratulating himself at having sufficiently irritated the woman, that the apple she sent in his direction narrowly missed, plunking off the glass door as he scampered through it. Of course, it was another opportunity too good to let pass by. He cracked the door open.

"Oh, and be certain to clean that up before we get back," he pointed at the spot on the door.

"Oh, I'm going to clean _something_!" she yelled after him, as he escaped down the hallway toward the elevator.

Stomping across the office, Bernice snatched the bruised apple off the floor then stormed off to the breakroom for a bottle of Windex and paper towels. By the time she'd cleaned the smudge off the door, her anger her cooled and she was smiling.

Life was certainly never dull when you worked at the Remington Steele Agency.

* * *

Laura hopped down out of the Explorer and closed the door before walking towards the car holding Zach and Celek, her heels clicking against the pavement. Bending over, she looked in the open window at the younger detective and his partner.

"What do we have?" she asked.

"White female with long brown hair," Zach rattled off, "Approximately 5'8", 125 pounds accompanied by a white male, light brown hair, short cut, 6'3" or 6'4", I'd guess pushing two-fifty, two-sixty. The male carried a female child, three-or-four years of age, into the house. No one's been in or out since." Laura lifted and turned her head at the distinct sound of a Porsche's engine rev'ving as it accelerated down the street towards them. She allowed herself a moment to appreciate the picture the car and the man behind the wheel made, then returned her attention to Zach.

"It appears my partner has arrived. We've got it from here." Stepping out of the way, she waited until the cars exchanged places and Remington alighted from the Porsche. He brushed his lips briefly against her cheek.

"Mrs. Steele." Gracing him with a smile over her shoulder she started walking towards the house.

"Mr. Steele." With a pair of long strides he caught up with her and lay a hand on the small of her back.

"Michaels called. He's on the way to New Jersey to speak with Colonel Roselli. He'll call as soon as he has," he filled her in.

"It's not a bad idea, although I'd think Roselli knows his father wouldn't help him," she commented.

Facing him, she smoothed away an imaginary wrinkle in a sleeve then flicked off a very real strand of Prince Charming's fur. With a single pat of her hand against his shoulder, she turned and pressed the doorbell. They exchanged looks when the door went unanswered. Remington took a pair of steps backwards so the front windows were in his line of sight as Laura lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. The sheers hanging in the window fluttered when the front door was yanked open and a young woman stepped into its frame with a single finger pressed to her lips.

"I just got my daughter down," she shushed them. She quickly assessed their appearance. "We've already been saved and I'm sure whatever church you're from is great, but w-w-we—" she stuttered to a stop when Remington flashed open his credentials.

"Remington Steele and my partner, Laura Steele," he introduced. "We'd like to ask you a few—"

This time it was his turn to stumble to a stop as he and Laura watched the woman begin to violently tremble, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as her legs gave way and she began to crumple towards the ground…

* * *

Remington and Laura sat on the worn love seat located across from a similarly worn, matching couch where Dana Smith sat nursing a cup of water, while her husband fussed over her.

When Dana Smith had fainted Laura and Remington had instinctively surged forward, each grabbing one of the woman's arms before she could hit the ground. The unexpected event has presented a question of what to do with the unconscious woman and certainly standing outside the home where they might be seen wasn't an option.

"Not the most eloquent of confessions…" Remington had commented, wryly. Laura had puffed out a breath, the woman's weight threatening to buckle her knees.

"Can you just take her?" she demanded.

"And do what with her?" She gave him a look that suggested he'd lost his mind.

"Carry her inside!" He eyes skimmed over the woman then returned to Laura.

"You act as though it's as simple as that."

"You carry me _all_ the time!" she huffed, growing increasingly irritated with her partner. She adjusted her hands for a better grip on the woman.

"Yes, but she's dead weight as it stands right now and she already weighs at least a stone more than yourself!" he protested. He prepared to further argue the point when the sly smile she gave him announced she'd determined the swiftest route to securing his agreement. He vowed to resist whatever promise, whatever threat, whatever tau—

"Unless, of course, Dingo's correct and you can't… Old Timer."

With a glare in Laura's direction, he'd altered his stance, bent his knees, then lifted the woman with a grunt. His knees creaked beneath the woman's weight and his hold on her was, at best, precarious. With knees angled awkwardly, he stepped into the house and tottered across the room towards the couch Laura indicated. He'd been left breathless and panting and he suspected his back would ache for days, but he'd made his point. _Pfft. Old timer, indeed._

Still, it had been a good thing that that the hulk of a man who'd rushed into the room had been more concerned with his wife's state than trading punches because he was fairly certain he'd be unable to find the energy to defend himself, let alone throw a punch or two himself. A cool compress to the forehead had roused the woman soon enough. Clutching a glass of water in one hand and her husband's in the other, Dana croaked…

"How did you find us?" Remington remove the picture from his pocket and lay it on the coffee table positioned between couch and love seat.

"As they say 'A picture paints a thousand words,'" Remington commented, tapping the picture a pair of times with his index finger. Dana's shoulders slumped and she looked at her husband with defeat painted across her face.

"Dana didn't have nothing to do with it. It was all me." Dana shook her head, denying her husband's claim.

"That's not true," she refuted. "We did it together." Remington looked at Laura with lifted brows. So a confession would be so easy after all.

"You're admitting you robbed CashNow?"

"We needed money and fast," Evan answered with resignation. "We didn't know what else to do."

"Evan and me began going together in ninth grade," Dana explained, hoping that their cooperation would at least gain a favorable comment from the pair when the police showed up. "We got married two weeks after we graduated. Him and me both come from big families: I have five brothers and sisters and he has four. We wanted the same thing for us and tried for five years to have our first baby." Setting the glass on a side table, she picked up a framed picture sitting there and handed it to Laura. "We'd pretty much given up after the fourth miscarriage and then we had Emma."

"She's beautiful," Laura complimented, then handed the picture to Remington. Dana smiled wanly at the compliment.

"We never knew you could love someone so much, but she's…" Unable to find the words she pressed a hand over her heart.

"I understand," Laura assured, softly.

"When Emma was four she had a sore throat. We didn't think anything of it." Dana looked to Evan for confirmation. He squeezed her hand in support.

"Emma was always getting colds at daycare," he explained. "Me and Emma would take her to the doctor and they'd say it has to run its course. After two years of visits we thought we'd gotten the hang of when to worry and when to not."

"She didn't seem that sick at first. A sore throat and a low fever so we gave her Triaminic and Tylenol like the doctor had always told us before," Dana continued. "But two weeks later she still wasn't right. She was so tired, and then she started saying her head hurt and she got this polka dot rash on her legs." Dana's voice cracked with emotion and she looked to Evan for help.

"We started thinking maybe it weren't a cold," Evan picked up, "So we took her to the doctor. Before we knew what was happening we was sent to the hospital for tests and Emma was put into PICU."

"PICU?" Remington wondered.

"Pediatric Intensive Care," Evan supplied. "It weren't a cold she'd gotten but strep throat. Still kids get that all the time, right? We didn't get why she was in PICU until the doctor came in when the tests was done and he told us her kidneys were failing." He swallowed hard several times. "Because we didn't take her to the doctor, the strep made her get acute post strepto—… strepto—"

"Acute post-streptococcal glomerulonephritis. They treated her strep and put her on dialysis for her kidneys. They said most kids get better and the kidney damage is stopped before it gets too bad," Dana furthered. "Not for Emma. She ended up with kidney disease then four months ago she went into failure and they told us she had…" Dana's lip quivered and eyes welled "…had to have a… a transplant."

"Me and Dana were tested and she was a match," Evan stepped in. "I own my shop and we got good insurance. Our parents' churches did some fundraising and Emma's school did a fair. They raised enough so that we could pay our deductible and help with the bills when Dana and Emma was recovering. We didn't find out until Emma came home that our insurance won't cover her medicine." Dana opened the drawer of the side table and removed a half-dozen orange pharmacy bottles and dumped them on top of the picture the coffee table.

"She has to have these every day for the rest of her life," she told them, her frustration evident. "They'll pay for the surgery but not for the medicine she has to have after?"

"I gather it's costly?" Remington speculated. Dana and Evan nodded while Laura picked up a three of the bottles and read the labels. _Imuran, Rapamune, Tacrolimus._ Not a one of them were familiar to her.

"Eight thousand dollars," Evan offered. Laura nearly dropped the bottles.

"A _month?_ " she asked, appalled. Another pair of nods in response. "That's _ridiculous_. How is that even possible?"

"We asked the man at the drug store the same thing," Dana replied between sniffles. "He said it's all about supply and demand. Since not a lot of it is made every year like with antibiotics, companies can charge whatever they want."

"And if Emma weren't to have it?" Remington wondered. Dana and Evan exchanged looks before Evan's eyes dropped to his lap, his face a mask of shame. The detective duo watched as Evan seemed to shrink in stature beyond their eyes.

"What just did – rejection," he croaked. "We just got Emma home from the hospital this morning."

"We had enough money left from the fundraiser to pay for most of it the first month and put the rest on our credit card," Dana elaborated. "Evan sold his car – a Shelby Cobra he'd started restoring when we were kids and that paid another two months." Her eyes dropped much like her husband's had previously. "We applied for Medi-Cal but the social worker says Evan makes too much." The reminder angered the younger man.

"I don't barely make enough to pay the bills at the shop, to pay the two guys that work for me, and pay our bills at home then put away a little in Emma's college fund. I definitely don't make no eight thousand dollars over what we need."

"Last month, me and Evan got to talking," Dana added. "Emma's so small. She hasn't hardly grown since she got sick. We thought maybe we could cut her medicine in half each day and it would be okay. If so, then I could get a job and our families said between all of them they could chip in enough to get us to four thousand a month."

"But she rejected, or at least started to," Laura concluded, given Evan's prior statement.

"And when we told the doctor what we'd done and why, the hospital social worker came to see us. She told us we should think about putting Emma into care because then she would get Medi-Cal." Dana showed a rightful display of anger of her own, as far as the Steele's were concerned. "Me and Evan? We're good parents. We made a mistake about a cold, a big mistake, but Evan and me, we would give our lives for Emma."

"Not being rich don't make us bad parents," Evan added vehemently.

"Of course, it doesn't!" Laura exclaimed, thoroughly affronted on their behalf.

"It's criminal, should you ask me," Remington opined. "A child's health and best interest placed at risk over nothing more than money."

"Why CashNow?" Laura inquired, the why of the crime more than self-explanatory.

"I had a cousin that got into some trouble with husband of the woman who worked there," Evan replied, his eyes on Dana as she suddenly stood and disappeared down the hallway. "He told me once that the guy were always bragging on how at least a hundred k a month went through the place." He held out his hands palms up and hung his head. "I figured if we could get enough to pay for Emma's medication this month, it would give us time to figure something out." He shook his head, then looked back up, anger sparking in his eyes again. "We aren't giving her up." As he finished, Dana reentered the room carrying a bag. With a final, longing look at it, she sat it down on the floor next to Remington.

"It's all there," she informed him softly, sounding for all the world like a woman who'd given up hope. Joining her husband on the couch, she clenched his hand when he reached for hers.

"Look, I don't care what happens to me. I'll turn myself in," Evan begged. "But Emma needs her mom. Please, don't take Dana from her. Please." At the sound of her husband pleading while offering himself up for her and Emma, Dana turned to him, and wrapping his arms around his neck broke out into heaving sobs.

"Emma needs you too," she cried.

Well, it would take a much harder heart than the naturally compassionate ones the Steele's possessed to be unaffected. A shared look was it all it took to confirm they were on the same page.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Remington announced.

"Our client has recovered his losses," Laura added, "And I suspect, given the circumstances, that the woman you robbed would agree either of you going to jail wouldn't be justice. I'd like you to speak with our attorney, however, to see if he can find a way around the Medi-Cal problem."

"Mommy why are you crying?" A small voice drew the attention of all in the room to the diminunitive little girl with large eyes and far too pale skin. Dana launched herself from the couch to pick up her daughter and hold her close as Remington and Laura got to their feet.

"They're happy tears, I promise," Dana reassured Emma. "Let's get you back to bed. I'll read you a story."

"Dana, just one more thing," Laura called at the woman's retreating form. She waited until Dana turned around then asked, "Why the picture?"

Dana looked from Laura to Emma, then back at Laura again.

"A mother would do anything for her children…"

* * *

Remington offered Laura a hand as she climbed into the driver's seat of the Explorer.

"I'll have Bernice call Hawthorne and ask him to meet us at the Agency in an hour," she told him. "I have a short stop I want to make on the way back to the office." Remington quirked a brow at her.

"Dare I assume that short stop would be at a certain pharmacy?" he hypothesized. She lifted a pair of brows at him.

"And you weren't planning to do the same?" she challenged. He grinned at her as he closed the door.

"We'll never truly know the answer to that now, will we?" he teased. She rattled off an address.

"Ask Jacoby to swing by the pharmacy and pick the medication up on his way here. He can tell them the foundation paid for it."

"The foundation, eh?" he asked, doubtfully. "Why is it I suspect I'll be seeing a fairly decent sized check appearing on the Steele's bank statement in the very near future?"

Cranking the engine and putting the SUV into gear, she didn't answer, merely smiled wide and waved goodbye.


	31. Chapter 27: Birthday Plans

Chapter 27: Birthday Plans

Stepping out of the shower, Remington plucked the towel from its rack and scrubbed briefly at his hair until his thick mane was merely damp as opposed to dripping. A quick dry off, and he slung the towel around his waist then walked to the bathroom counter and picked up a comb to run it through his hair. Dropping the comb back down on the counter's surface, he leaned forward and peered at his reflection, searching for any hint of the previously mentioned gray hair. True, he'd plucked a traitorous piece or three from his hair in recent months, but so far as he knew, he'd been the first to notice them. He was, after all, a man fastidious about his appearance, so such inspections of his self were a matter of routine.

Backing up a pair of steps, he examined his torso critically in the mirror. Yes, he'd put on ten pounds since he and Laura had married, but he'd been of a mind that the added weight had only enhanced his frame which had once veered towards thin rather than lean. A pinch of his waist revealed no hint of the love handles Laura had accused him of possessing, and with a turn to the side he confirmed his abdomen remained flat and firm as ever, not a bit of paunch to be found.

He quit the bathroom with a snort of disdain. Really, all the comments of late about his age could give a man a complex.

Walking directly to his dresser, he opened a drawer, removed a pair of briefs and tugged them on as he reviewed the afternoon in his head. When the money had been returned to Hawthorne, the greedy little man had scurried out of the office, taking them on their word that they'd shaken enough trees to make the robbers nervous, thereby inspiring them to dump the take after calling in an anonymous tip as to where it could be found. He had his money, which was all he was concerned about, never having asked a single word about how Selena had been fairing in the aftermath of the robbery. In his and Laura's opinion, it would serve the man right to discover his store remained unopened on Monday morning as Selena and her children had been relocated by Jacoby and Melina the night before.

He turned towards the bed where he'd laid out a pair of khakis and a polo after he and Laura had returned from their run. Stopping in his tracks, his eyes widened in disbelief. A look towards the bedroom door confirmed it remained closed, so how was it possible this odious creature Sophie optimistically referred to as Prince Charming was now contentedly rolling about on previously pristine garments? Mumbling a string of ungentlemanly oaths beneath his breath that expressed his disdain for the wardrobe destroying feline, Remington picked up Charming and holding him at arm's length, carried the cat across the room, unceremoniously depositing him in the hallway and slamming shut the door. Polo and khakis were tossed in the hamper, replaced by a pair of jeans and a button down shirt.

Laura and he still hadn't discussed their little dust up in the office that morning, he reflected as he dressed, and he was beginning to understand what she'd meant when she'd said she preferred punishment swiftly delivered. He'd gone along with her easy mood that afternoon but in the back of his mind, he'd grown increasingly anxious, wondering when she'd explode, dressing him down soundly for what she would have certainly seen as an attempt to exert his male superiority which would then be followed by a demand for his sincere contrition and the issuing of her edict on the consequences for his actions. The problem with that, of course, was he had no intention of apologizing or ceding his ground. Yes, a fight of magnificent proportions was on the horizon, and he'd prefer they get it over with sooner rather than later.

His attempt to ease them towards that argument had all been for naught. Casually mentioning he was of a mind to cancel the poker game he was supposed to host that evening, she'd just as casually dismissed the notion.

"There's no need," she'd replied, breezily. "I was planning on getting a little work done this evening anyway."

Not a mention made of Roselli or her decree that they would continue living their lives as though the man were still in the pokey.

Then, of course, she'd neatly diverted the conversation to Mildred's offer to play classroom 'Mom'. As he descended the staircase, his lips lifted in a smile, the thought mutually amusing and touching him. In the family room, he stooped down to admire Holt's efforts to build a house with his Lincoln Logs.

"A fine display of engineering, mo mhac," he complimented. Holt's blue eyes shone with pride. He may not have understood what engineering was, but he understood the warmth of the praise.

"I wanna make cassles, Da." Remington ruffed his son's dark hair.

"Not tonight," he rejected, then added with a smile, "But I'm sure we'll find time to devote to sand castle building this weekend, hmmmm?" Holt nodded happily. With a buss against the top of his son's head, he moved into the dining room where Livvie and Sophie sat with a Candyland board laid out between them on the table. Bussing each atop her head, he continued to the kitchen, allowing them to play on undisturbed. He purposefully affixed a glower on his face before he stepped into the room where Laura leaned in a corner formed by two counters, nursing a cup of coffee, still donned in her running clothes.

"Laura, that useless piece of fur you refer to as a cat is destroying my wardrobe," he groused, then pointed a finger in her direction, "Not to mention depriving me of much needed sleep!" Amusement twinkled in her brown eyes as she regarded him over the rim of her cup. "Honestly, I've no idea what possessed us to acquire that entitled freeloader in the first place." One corner of her mouth tipped upwards and lowering her cup, she tapped her lips with a finger as though in serious contemplation.

"If I recall correctly," she drawled, "Sophie wanted a cat and her father is incapable of telling his children no."

"A fish, Laura," he continued to rant as though she hadn't spoken, "A fish is a perfectly acceptable pet…" he gesticulated a swimming movement with his hand "…Swimming about in a glass bowl day in and day out, content merely to be fed a few flakes each day." Opening the door to the oven he peeked in on the lasagna.

"Oh, ho! This coming from the man who – when I suggested getting Holt a fish for his room – told me 'But, Laura, fish are so _boring._ All they do is swim in circles until you find them floating belly up after a few days.'"

"A turtle," he offered passionately. "A nice neat pet, happy to live out its life in aquarium. A bit of water to enjoy, a little food to eat and it's a veritable turtle paradise."

"Very neat…" she agreed, then added drily "…Until they get stepped on." His face distorted with disgust as he recalled pair of turtles that had met that very demise some years back. Opening the refrigerator, he removed a loaf of French bread and the small bowl of garlic butter he'd whipped up.

"A bird, living peacefully in its cage—"

"'Throwing its bird seed everywhere and waking the whole house at dawn with its insipid chirping,' wasn't it?" she reminded. He frowned, briefly, as he recalled that conversation, then pointed a finger upwards in triumph.

"A dog! What could be more perfect than man's best friend," he postulated with passion. In dining room, Livvie jumped down from her chair then scrambled up onto a bar stool at the kitchen breakfast bar. "You feed them, send them out to do their business, and most of all, dogs are obedient!" A mental image flitted through his vibrant imagination and he paused in buttering the bread. "Actually, I find the idea of a dog nightly bringing me slippers rather appea—"

"I want a dog for my birthday!" Livvie announced, with an eager smile that made her blue eyes sparkle.

"Appalling," Remington quickly finished, his own blue eyes turning to Laura and pleading for a bit of assistance. Instead, treacherous woman that she was, he found a pair of mischievous brown eyes twinkling back at him.

"You do? I don't recall you ever mentioning you like dogs, let alone wanting one," Laura pointed out as she crossed the kitchen to lean against her elbows on the counter. Livvie nodded her head, eagerly.

"Makayla and Erin have dogs. I want one like Shadow in _Homeward Bound._ "

" _Homeward Bound?_ " Remington asked, his brows drawing together in confusion, the partially buttered piece of bread still in his hand, forgotten. "Shadow?"

"The movie _Homeward Bound?_ " Laura reminded. His blank look said he still had no idea what she was speaking of. "We took the children to see it last year in the theater. The movie about the two dogs and a cat who get lost and have to find their way home?" she prompted again. "Shadow is the Golden Retriever who acts as the voice of reason?" _Oh, a Disney film,_ he noted snootily. Then, a flash of inspiration.

"Uh, Laura," he began, resuming the buttering of the bread, "Wasn't it you who said you didn't care for the message the Disney movies imparted upon the children?" He looked at her slyly from beneath his lashes. She wasn't having any of it.

"Nice try," she retorted drily. "As you well know, I was referring to the way many of their movies teach little girls they need a prince to solve their problems for them. I actually liked the message _Homeward Bound_ taught." He snorted his derision aloud.

"You mean the one that attempts to convince little kiddies everywhere that they need a menagerie?" She smiled beatifically at him.

"No, I mean the one about the resiliency of a bond formed by love." He grunted his disapproval but held his silence otherwise. Laura turned back to Livvie. "A dog is a big responsibility," she pointed out solemnly to their daughter.

"I'll feed him like Sophie does Charming and get him his treats," Livvie promised. "And he can sleep with me like Charming does." Laura laughed quietly.

"Oh, I don't know about that. A Golden Retriever is a big dog. There might not be room for you." She stroked a hand fondly over her daughter's hair. Livvie pressed up onto her knees on the barstool and lay a palm on both of Laura's cheeks, looking intently at her.

"Can I have a dog? Pretty please? I won't ask for nothing else," she vowed.

"You won't ask for _anything_ else," Laura corrected automatically. She pursed her lips and slanted a look towards Remington. This could actually prove a valuable lesson to him. "It's up to your father. If you get a dog it will need to go for a walk every morning as soon as you get up, again after school and then before bed. When dog is just a puppy, you have to lay day down paper each morning and at night in case it has an accident while you're at school or while you're sleeping and any accidents have to be cleaned up. Then there are visits to the veterinarian –"

"Vetrarian?" Livvie interrupted to ask with a tilt of her head.

"Vet-er-in-ar-ian," Laura sounded out. "That's a doctor for animals."

"Like where we take Prince Charming!" Olivia concluded.

"Exactly. A dog has to go to the veterinarian to get his shots, to have his checkups and to get medicine to make him feel better when he's sick," Laura elaborated. "And, of course, a dog needs to be given baths, have his coat brushed and his nails trimmed. They're a lot a work," she emphasized again, "But if you think you're up to it, then it's alright by me if your Da says you can have one." Remington's eyes narrowed on his wife, not quite certain what he was up to, but the chill that skittered down his spine left warning bells ringing in his head. "And speaking of your birthday, I think _this_ year, you and Da should plan your party together. Whattya say?" Warning signs began to flash behind his eyes, and he shifted where he stood. Laura? Allowing him to plan Olivia's birthday celebration?

"Meagan had her party at Chuck E. Cheese. Can I have my party there too?" Remington cocked his head. _What in the blue blazes is a Chucky Cheese,_ he wondered

"May I," Laura corrected again. "And that's up to you and Da. Why don't the two of you talk it over while I take my shower and you can surprise me at dinner with what you've come up with."

"Okay, Mommy!" Livvie happily agreed then turned her full attention to her father as Laura left the kitchen, her shrewd smile unseen. Remington's eyes followed her retreating back "Da, can I have my party at Chuck E. Cheese?"

"I suppose that depends on what a Chucky Cheese is…"

* * *

"Finish your cauliflower, Little Man," Laura directed. Holt dropped his hands into his lap, his chin to his chest and his shoulders slumped.

"I don't like calflower," he sullenly answered. Laura's lips twitched with the smile that wanted to appear there. It was on a very rare occasion that their mild natured son voiced his objections, but when it came to this particular vegetable, he'd make his opinion known.

"I'll tell you a secret," Mia volunteered, "I don't like cauliflower, either." Holt looked at her plate, devoid of any remnants of her cauliflower, and shook his head doubtfully.

"You eated yours," he offered up as proof.

"Ate. She ate hers," Laura guided.

"That's because my mother always told us when we were growing up: If you wait to eat what you don't like until last, you spend the whole meal thinking about what you don't like. But…" she drew out the word, "If you eat what you don't like first, you can look forward to all the things you do."

"I never—" Laura began, only to stop short when the phone began ringing. "I'm sorry. I have to get that. We're expecting a couple of business calls this evening." As she stood, she pointed to Holt's plate. "Finish your cauliflower, Little Man."

"So, Mia, no plans for tonight?" Remington asked. Friday and Saturday nights normally found Mia out dancing with her friends if the Steele's were not in need of her services.

"I wish," she sighed. "Midterms begin on Monday, so it's nose to the grindstone for me all weekend…"

Conversation in the dining room continued as Laura plucked the handset off the wall mount and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, pal," Murphy greeted.

"Hey, Murph. How was your flight?" In the dining room, Remington turned an ear towards the conversation when he heard Laura greet the other detective.

"Smooth. Look, is Steele there with you?" Laura's brows drew together, the question and something she heard in Murphy's voice making the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

"He is. We were just finishing dinner."

"Think he can tear himself away?" The question left her fingering her throat nervously.

"I'm sure he can. Give me just a minute." Carrying the portable with her, she returned to the dining room. "Mia, I know you're off tonight, but would you mind watching the children while Mr. Steele and I take this call in the office?"

"Mind spending time with these three?" She reached out and ruffed Holt's hair, making him laugh. "Never! We'll even clean up if Mr. Steele is done."

"I am," he answered, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he stood up. "Appreciate it," he acknowledged with a nod of his head before turning to Laura. "Shall we?"

In short order, they were installed in the office with the door closed. Seated in the chair of the desk with Laura perched on the corner, Remington placed the desk phone on speakerphone before she hung up the portable.

"Michaels," he greeted.

"Steele."

"Did you find out something from Colonel Roselli?" Laura asked, cutting to the chase. There was a long moment of silence while Murphy gathered his wits.

"I don't know how to tell you this, pal, but Colonel Roselli is dead..."

* * *

 _ **A/N: They say bad things come in threes, and number three arrived last week. Please send a good thought, a wish, a prayer to my friend who continues to grieve the loss of 'the boy', as well as for another dear friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer last week. My time, as a friend, has been in demand the last weeks and, truthfully, I've needed time to grieve myself... and then get really angry at the latest news. I have been squeezing in writing when and where I can. I haven't forgotten you. We're just working our way through.**_

 _ **Incidentally, while the story of "Dana" and "Evan" was planned - gosh, more than a year ago? - as part of this story, I had no idea how close to home this would strike when I fleshed it out. This was actually inspired by a similar story that was in the news... and is apparently not that uncommon for transplant patients. ~RSteele82**_


	32. Chapter 28: Murder So Foul

_**A/N: My apologies not answering the many PM's inquiring after me.**_ _ **Remington and Laura have refused to be quiet these last two weeks, and I knew exactly where I wanted to end this update. Enjoy! Five chapters this week and they are long ones...**_

* * *

Chapter 28: Murder So Foul

" _Whaaaaaaaaat?!_ " Laura asked, her hand immediately lifting so a pair of fingers could knead at her brow. "When? What happened?" Remington had felt the earth shift beneath the chair he was seated in when Murphy announced Colonel Roselli was dead, instinctively knowing the answer to 'what happened.' He reached for Laura's unoccupied hand and drew her from the desk down onto his lap. Shaken by the news, he wasn't too proud to acknowledge that he needed the reassurance of her close presence.

"I spoke with the Colonel at eight this morning, ten his time," Murphy filled them in. "We agreed to meet between four-thirty and five, New Jersey time, at his house. I didn't wanna to give the cops sitting on the house an excuse to be there when we talked, so I parked my rental a block over, cut through a couple of yards and approached the Colonel's through the backyard. As soon as I saw the back door, I knew whatever I was about to walk in on probably wouldn't be good."

"What did you see?" Laura prompted.

"Someone had busted out a pane of glass next to the door. I couldn't hear anything moving inside, so I went in and checked things out."

"Mur-phy," Laura elongated his name, chastising him, "How many times do I have to tell you and Mr. Steele—" Despite the gravity of the conversation, the two men couldn't resist…

"You don't go in alone," Remington and Murphy said in unison. She scowled and smacked Remington lightly on the arm.

"Go on," Laura prompted.

"It was obvious someone had tossed the house," Murphy continued. "I didn't find the Colonel until I got to what looked like was his office. I gotta tell you, I don't know how the cops didn't realize something was up because the old guy didn't go down easy: Broken furniture, pictures knocked off walls, a broken lamp. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the blood in there was Roselli's."

"Beaten to death?" Laura asked, chills skittering down her spine. The Roselli's had done their best by their adoptive son and, in turn, he'd committed the ultimate betrayal in taking his father's life, an elderly man who would have been sorely outmatched.

"Beaten, yes, but it looks like Roselli ended it by slicing the Colonel's throat." Laura drew in a sharp breath at the news, while Remington dragged a hand over his face, then settled his splayed fingers over his mouth, stunned.

"How long had he been dead? Could you tell?" Laura wondered. In his hotel room, Murphy nodded his head unseen, then took a long draw on his beer before answering. Laura and Steele were the ones who enjoyed 'a nice juicy murder,' whereas he'd managed to avoid any such cases since his move to Denver.

"An hour, maybe two. Rigor hadn't started yet."

"Any idea what the bugger was after?" Remington inquired.

"Haven't got a clue," Murphy admitted. "The Colonel was lying near an empty safe. The desk had been emptied of its contents, the computer monitor smashed. On a hunch, I pulled the hard drive out of the tower before I left. Tomorrow I'll go buy a compatible system, hook the hard drive up and see if there's anything there of interest."

"Tell me you called the police," Laura requested.

"Give me some credit, pal," Murphy chided. "I did one better. I circled back around, pulled my car up in the drive, then showed the cops sitting on the place my credentials and told them the Colonel and I had an appointment. I knocked on the door a couple times then went back and asked if they were sure he was there. I don't think I have to tell you all hell broke loose after that. I'd wouldn't want to be the ones who were sitting on the house when it all went down."

"How are you doing, Murph?" Laura asked, concerned. "This is more than you bargained for, I'm sure." The man took another draw on his beer, emptying the bottle.

"I knew what I might be getting into," he countered. He'd seen Roselli's work first hand, after all. "I should have known he might go after the Colonel, but it never even crossed my mind. When I found him…" He paused to pop open a second beer and took a swig. "When I found him… Damn it," he cussed, a rarity for him, "It reminded me of how we found you in Mexico, Laura. That I definitely wasn't prepared for, but I'll be fine. I've ordered up dinner and then I'll hit the sack. A good night's sleep and I'll be good to go."

"Thanks, mate. We appreciate all you're doing," Remington offered.

"One of us should be home all day tomorrow. Call us if you need us," Laura added. "Have a good night. And Murph? Thanks." They hung up their individual phones, then she stood and faced him, bracing her backside against the edge of the desk and leaning slightly forward. "The Colonel," she said in disbelief.

"I'd say Roselli's proven he's playing for keeps this time 'round," he noted, with a pointed look.

"And he wasn't before?" she quickly returned, with a lift and drop of her hands. "It seems to me that anywhere Roselli goes bodies fall. "At least we know he isn't on his way to LA."

"Yet," he rejoined.

"Alright, yet," she agreed. "But at least that's some—" She stopped speaking when the doorbell chimed and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"That's probably Thomas," she reached out and patted him against the upper arm. "I'll finish cleaning up after dinner and will speak with Mia. I expect you'll need a little time alone with your father."

With that, she left the office, returning to the dining room while he turned the opposite direction towards the front door. There, he paused and drew his hand through his hair. He'd become an expert at apologizing across the years, but that didn't make it any less humbling when the occasion called. Reaching for the knob, he swung the door open, and offered Thomas a hand when he stepped inside.

"Father, I'm glad you could make it," he greeted. Thomas gave his son an odd look at the outstretched hand, but accepted the offer with a smile.

"Already anticipating lining your wallet with my losses, are you?" he joked. Thomas wasn't a regular at the Friday night poker game, much preferring an evening of whist, but he could be counted on to fill a vacant seat when in town. On this particular evening, Brandon's youngest sibling, Kaya – to whom he'd played the role of father figure her entire life and had taken custody of after the passing of their mother in '89 – was attending her first homecoming dance as a sophomore and he'd volunteered to act as chaperone.

"Mmm, yes," Remington laughed, "Although Jason will likely lament Graham's absence." Despite being part of poker night for a trio of years now, Brandon was a notoriously bad poker player, incapable putting on a 'poker face.' Jason was nearly as poor a player, unable to bluff his way out of paper bag but he could usually count on taking a hand or two when Brandon was at the table. "That's not what I meant, however. I wasn't sure you'd come after my display of temper last evening." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I was out of line." Thomas lay a comforting hand on his son's shoulder.

"Your concern was appreciated and the matter's been forgotten," he dismissed with casual ease. "Now, how can I assist you in preparing for this evening's festivities and where are my grandchildren? Surely not off to bed already?" he wondered as he walked towards the family room, leaving his son staring in disbelief at his back. Surely it couldn't be that easy?

But apparently it was, he shrugged, following his father into the family room.

"Granddad!" Livvie shrieked, running full tilt toward him. Thomas swooped her up easily, as she chattered excitedly. "I'm getting a puppy for my birthday and Mommy said Da can do my party!"

"Truly exciting news," he smiled at her. "You'll have to tell me all about it."

"I never said you can have a puppy," Remington protested, then looked to Laura whose lips were pinched together with amusement from where she stood next to the kitchen doorway, Sophie tucked behind her and peeking out. "I never said she could have a puppy. We didn't discuss it at all, as a matter of fact," he defended.

"I already said it was fine by me if you agreed," she reminded smoothly. Too smoothly. And with a little too much devil glinting in her eyes for his taste. His eyes narrowed on her with suspicion. _What, exactly, is my lovely wife up to?_

"Grand-Da!" Holt called happily scrambling out of the kitchen. With a buss to Livvie's cheek he sat her on her feet and swung Holt up into his arms. Giving his grandfather his best pout – and looking stunningly like his father in doing so – the little guy griped, "Mommy made me ate my calflower." Thomas smiled at his grandson, then affixed a serious look on his face.

"As well she should, given she wishes to you grow up to be tall and strong," he advised. Holt tilted his head to the side and regarded his grandfather.

"Like you?" Thomas gave the boy a hug.

"Ah, you flatter me, but yes. I've never particularly cared for cauliflower, yet I make it a point to eat every last bite." Sophie peeked out from behind Laura's back again.

"Where's Grans?" she wondered. Thomas slanted a look at Remington and lifted his brows, questioning his granddaughter's shy behavior. It had been years since he'd seen such hesitancy in the child. He nodded slightly when Remington mouthed the word 'later.'

"It will be too late an evening for your Grans, I'm afraid, and you know how she enjoys her beauty sleep." Sophie gave him a weak smile and a nod then disappeared into the kitchen to help Mia.

"Sophie, Livvie, take Holt upstairs and pick out what you're going to wear to bed," Laura instructed. "I'll be up in just a minute to prepare your baths."

"Awwww, but Granddad just got here," Livvie protested, while Sophie dutifully left the kitchen and walked to where Thomas still stood holding Holt.

"Come on, Holt, I'll help you," she volunteered. With a kiss to his grandson's cheek, Thomas set him on the ground.

"I'll be up to say goodnight," Thomas promised, then dropping to a knee addressed Sophie directly. "Do you think the Little Lady Steele might have a hug for her Granddad?" he asked quietly, holding his arms open. Sophie hesitated then stepped into the frame of his arms. As his arms closed around her she leaned into the hug and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Ah, that's my girl," he praised, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. Leaning back, he looked her face over and didn't care for what he saw. "I'll tell Grans you were asking after her and she won't be able to stop herself from coming over first thing tomorrow. Would you like that?"

"Yes," Sophie offered the singular syllable in a near whisper. With a final hug, he released her and pressed, with the click of a knee, to his feet.

"Then you best do as your mother says," Thomas smiled. "I'll be along to say goodnight to you and Livvie as well."

"Come on, Holt," Sophie requested, holding out her hand to her little brother. "We'll go pick out your pajamas."

"Race you!" Livvie challenged at the bottom of the stairs and taking off in a sprint.

"No running up the stairs!" Laura shouted. Livvie's feet immediately stopped and she waited for Sophie and Holt to catch up.

"Mommy's no fun," Livvie grumbled none too quietly as the three continued upwards together. With a roll of her eyes and a 'What can I do' lift and drop of her hands, Laura returned to the kitchen. When the children disappeared down the hall upstairs, Thomas turned to his son.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"In the billiards room, if you don't mind," Remington suggested, not wanting to chance Sophie returning downstairs and overhearing. "Laura and I agreed that Tank and Dozer would watch over the children when we weren't with them," he began in a weary tone once they were in the billiards room. He removed a carousel of chips and a new deck of cards from a cabinet and carried them to the poker table. "It seems they remind Sophie of Castoro. She woke in hysterics last evening, certain the 'bad man' was here for her. She's been clinging to Laura as much as possible since. She didn't even wish to help with dinner this evening. Laura took into our studio for some ballet practice and one-on-one time."

"Perhaps it would be wise to dismiss the men," Thomas suggested. "I know her distress is not from anything they've done, but she can hardly remain in this state."

"That's not a possibility at the moment, I'm afraid," Remington rejected. "Laura and I are comfortable with not only Tank and Dozer's abilities but their commitment to keeping the children safe from harm." Reaching into a top cupboard at the back of the bar, he pulled out several ashtrays and a box of cigars. "Mildred has conceived of a plan we hope will ease Sophie's fears while keeping Tank and Dozer watching over them." He gave his father an amused smile. "Beginning Monday, Mildred will be playing room mother in a certain second grade classroom at Good Shepard. If she sees anything of concern, she'll alert them, elsewise… How did she put it?... Ah, yes. Elsewise they are to 'make like a ghost and be invisible.'"

"She's a fine woman, Mildred," Thomas complimented.

"Mmm, that she is," Remington agreed, removing ice trays from the small freezer nestled into the bar to fill an insulated ice bucket. "I'm afraid we received some rather alarming information about Roselli shortly before you arrived," he offered tentatively, given how their last discussion of the man had ended.

"Alarming?" Thomas wondered.

"Laura's put Michaels on Roselli's trail," Remington elaborated. "This morning he departed for New Jersey to speak with the Colonel, Roselli's adoptive father. He found the Colonel dead – murdered no more than a couple hours before Michaels arrived." Thomas was staggered by the news.

"He knows for certain it was Roselli?"

"It follows, as Laura would say," Remington answered simply. "Roselli escaped not too far from where his father lives. The Colonel's office had been ransacked and a safe emptied. The assault on the Colonel was… excessive… from what Michaels described. That type of brutality is usually reserved for a victim of known association that one holds a certain amount of anger towards." He paused and caught his father's eyes to underscore the significance of what he was about to say next. "The murder occurred with two police officers sitting in a car right outside the Colonel's home."

"That's unfortunate," Thomas noted with a calm Remington hadn't expected.

"Unfortunate?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder at his father as he left the billiards room and Thomas followed him towards the kitchen. "I can think of any number of more accurate descriptors: Worrisome, fright—"

"You have to remember, son, Scotland Yard was in pursuit of the man for more than a year," Thomas recounted. "During that same time, he was running all about London and never a sighting made. The man is much like the ghost Mildred advised Tank and Dozer to be."

"Mmm, I see your point," Remington acknowledged right before stepping into the kitchen where Laura was wiping down the counters. Cupping her upper arms in his hands, he leaned in to brush his lips against her cheek. "I have it from here, love." She dropped the cleaning towel on the counter and turned to face him. His eyes searched her face, found the strain around her eyes. They'd neither discussed what had been said in his office that morning nor had she volunteered anything about her meeting with her father. Then, as though she wouldn't have enough on her mind, news of the Colonel's murder. They needed time alone to talk - really talk – but it wouldn't be on this night as she'd insisted he follow through with poker night. "You look tired," he said instead.

"It's been a long day," she smiled. Stepping away from him, she pressed a quick kiss to Thomas's cheek in greeting. "Since you have the kitchen, I'll start the baths."

"I'll be there shortly," Remington promised to her retreating back, then lifted the lid on a pot on the stove and stirred its contents. "I thought we'd keep it simple this evening. Queso and baked tortilla chips, Tuscan Pepper Bruschetta, Sweet Potato and Chorizo Sausage Bites and a spinach and Vidalia dip with a selection of vegetables to dip." From the refrigerator he removed bowls of cream cheese, goats cheese and marinating orange and yellow peppers and dropped them on the counter. Thomas reached for an apron, where it hung on the pantry door.

"I'll take care of this while you help Laura with the children," he volunteered. "What else needs to be done?"

"The sausage bites and tortilla chips will need to go into the oven to be warmed in about twenty minutes. After the children are in bed, I'll set up the warmers. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two."

"Then once everything is in the oven, I'll be along to say my goodnights," Thomas replied. Remington nodded his appreciation, stepped to Thomas and gave him an impulsive hug. With a short nod of his head, he disappeared through the kitchen door before Thomas had a chance to say a word.


	33. Chapter 29: Giving Back

Chapter 29: Giving Back

Remington tossed his cards face down on the table, indicating he folded the current hand. Standing, he stretched his back, then picking up his empty tumbler and plate, walked to the bar. Tossing the empty plate into the trash, he splashed a couple of fingers of scotch into his glass.

"My compliments, Remington," Donald said as he joined Remington at the bar, having just folded the hand as well. "The food you whip up is worth every penny I lose at this game." Remington watched as Donald heaped a second helping of food onto his plate.

"And Frances will have both our heads should she find out just how much you enjoy it," Remington ribbed his brother-in-law. "How is Frances?" Dropping a bruschetta covered cracker on his plate, Donald being diplomatic, then shrugged a shoulder.

"Difficult," he admitted. "Dinner the other night didn't go as she'd hoped. I'm not sure why either of us thought things would be any different, even after all this time." Remington's brows peaked with interest.

"How so?" he asked, watching as Thomas lay down his hand, folding as well.

"Jack wasn't there to see Frances," Donald shared with a hint of regret in his voice. "He was there to pump her for information on Laura." Remington's eyes narrowed at the news.

"What kind of information?"

"Any kind," Donald answered quickly. "Work, you, the kids, your travels. He's slicker than I remember him being. He managed to turn every conversation into a fishing expedition. It was just like when they were kids: Frannie was just an afterthought to him."

"I imagine that's rather how Laura would describe her relationship with Abigail," Remington noted. "Truly a house divided, eh?" Donald laughed quietly.

"I'll say." He looked towards the doorway. "I'm beginning to think Laura's avoiding me because she and Frannie are on the outs."

"Nonsense," Remington dismissed. "End of month is next weekend, as are Halloween and Livvie's birthday. As we speak, she's in the office pouring over the Agency books. She said she'd stop by on her way to bed…" he glanced at his watch. Just after eleven-thirty. "…Which I imagine will be near any time now. Besides, I don't think Laura is put out with Frances at all. She's just trying to put everything in perspective, much like Frances is."

"Has Laura seen him again?" Donald wondered.

"They had lunch today, as a matter of fact." He flicked up a hand. "But don't ask me for details. She hasn't said a word about it so far." He watched as Zach collected the chips from the center of the table. "Seems the next hand is about to begin."

"Ante up, mon amis," Monroe instructed, as Remington and Donald rejoined the table. "The night is still young and Jocelyn has her eye on a new bauble."

"It would appear we have competing interests, mate," Remington observed as he dropped a chip into the pot. "I have a little surprise of my own being delivered for Laura tomorrow afternoon."

"And what might that be?" Laura asked as she approached the table. Remington slid an around her waist when she neared.

"I think that we both know the answer to that question, don't we?" he teased lightly, his blue eyes twinkling up at her. She crinkled her nose at him, silently signaling she knew what his answer would be if she pursued it further. "All finished?" Her shoulders drooped slightly.

"Close. An hour or two tomorrow night and I should be good to go." Weary to the bone and distracted she'd found herself having to go over the same figures repeatedly. Dropping his cards on the table, he folded or the second time in as many hands and stood.

"I'll walk you up," he insisted, lying a trio of fingers on her back and stepping to her side. She paused after a pair of steps, stopping to give Donald a hug.

"As soon we know where Roselli is, we'll have to have everyone over for an afternoon of barbeque and swimming." Remington peered down at the top of Laura's head, flabbergasted by his normally closed-mouthed wife's casual reference to her one-time abductor. Donald released her from his embrace and stepped back, a grin on his face.

"That sounds—" He stumbled to a stop, slack-jawed. "What do you mean by 'where Roselli is'?" he asked in an alarmed tone. Laura blinked a pair of times. _Did I say that? Damn._ She found she was too tired to care… or explain. Remington, sensing her apathy, took control.

"Father, would you mind?" he requested.

"Of course," Thomas readily agreed.

"I'll be back shortly. Play on without me." With those words, the hand on Laura's back eased her from the room. "Are you alright?" he asked as they approached the relative privacy of the family room.

"It's nothing a good night's sleep won't solve," she insisted, leaning in to him as they walked. "I spoke with Mia."

"And?"

"She's staying, for now, but I made it clear if Roselli comes to LA she'll need to stay with Miri for her own safety." She sighed, heavily. "I hate this. This is Mia's home, too." Sliding hand up her arm, he gave her a gentle squeeze as they began to ascend the stairs.

"I know," he soothed. "I'm sure she understands we've only her best interests in mind."

"That doesn't make it any easier," she breathed the lamentation.

"I know, I know," he replied quietly. At the top of the stairs when she made to turn right towards the children's rooms, he swung her to the left towards their room. "I'll check on the children," he assured. Looping his arms around her waist when they reached their bedroom door, he drew her close. "Keep our bed warm for me? Hmmm?" She blinked once slowly, clasping her hands behind his neck and smiling softly up at him.

"You know I always do," Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair "Although I'd much rather _you_ were warming _me_." His eyes darkened with quiet desire and he palmed her cheek in a hand.

"Ah, if that I was," he hummed, then drew her lips to his for a sweet, lingering kiss finishing it with a press of lips to her forehead. "I'll be along as soon as everyone has left."

He watched with a tinge of regret as she left his arms and disappeared into their room. What he wanted was to wrap his body around hers and sleep a long, dreamless sleep. What he did was walk down the hallway and step into Sophie's room where the girls were sleeping this evening. Pulling the covers back over Livvie, Remington glared at the cat in answer to Charming's narrowed-eyed disapproval that a human – other than one on whose bed he was sleeping – had dared disturb his slumber. Once Sophie was properly covered, he did something he hadn't done in recent memory: Turned on the baby monitor and picked up the remote speaker. Although Laura was just down the hallway, he wouldn't risk – as exhausted as she'd been – her not rousing should Sophie awake fearful again. A final check and tuck-in of Holt, and he returned to his guests.

"I don't know how Frannie is going to handle this on top of everything else right now," Donald was worrying as Remington re-entered the billiards room. "She'll be frantic. I mean, this is the lunatic that kidnapped her baby sister."

"A little advice?" Remington asked as he rejoined the table.

"Sure," Donald agreed.

"Don't tell her – at least not yet," Remington advised. "We know Roselli was still on the other side of the country as of this afternoon. No need to frighten her needlessly." Even as he said the words, he recognized the irony in them: Here he had his children and father under guard – which was the only thing keeping him from packing the lot of them up and going underground – yet to frighten Frances now was 'needless'.

"How can you know for sure he's still there?" Donald asked. Remington's eyes darted to Thomas, who gave a minute shake of his head indicating he hadn't shared the most recent development.

"Ah," his son sighed, now, "Laura put Michael's on Roselli's trail. He was meeting with Roselli's father this afternoon and instead stumbled in on the aftermath of a murder."

"Tell me it isn't so, Mick," Monroe addressed with disbelief, "Are you saying Roselli murdered his own father?"

"'Fraid so," Remington confirmed.

"Good God," Monroe muttered.

"Damn, that's cold," Zach commented. Remington reached for the deck of cards, tapped them against the table then began shuffling.

"Perhaps we could turn the conversation to more pleasant topics?" he suggested.

"Graham said you and Mrs. Steele wrapped up the CashNow robbery?" Zach questioned, smoothly offering an alternative.

"Yes," Remington verified. "As a matter of fact, Mrs. Steele and I were going to speak with you and Celek first thing Monday. The two of you are to forget you ever sat on that house for us. There'll be no mention of our visit in the official case file, which, incidentally, will note an anonymous tip took us to the money as the perpetrators had decided to cut their losses before they ended up behind bars." Zach's detective instincts kicked in and made a quick assessment.

"Them?" Remington gave a sharp, single nod, as he dealt the cards. Zach gave his own head a shake. "Wow. What could possibly convince you and Mrs. S. to cover for them?"

"A Byzantine tale, I assure you. One of a family besieged by misfortune turned desperate when facing the unthinkable. To send them to jail would only compound the injustices dealt them," Remington replied cryptically, tossing a chip into the pot. Five sets of eyes rested on him, as the other men anteed up as well. Jason was the first to break.

"C'mon, you can't open with _that_ and not explain," he complained.

"I must admit, even I am most curious," Thomas confessed.

"My old friend Mick is merely displaying his cinematic flare," Monroe predicted, "Allowing the dramatic moment to build to a crescendo until he has our most rapt attention." The corner of Remington's mouth quirked up and down quickly, the thought amusing him. Perhaps he had, although not intentionally so. He was a storyteller by nature, after all and a good storyteller often tests the waters for interest before plunging in.

"Not a word of this goes beyond these walls," he forewarned.

"Goes without saying, my old friend," Monroe noted, as he lay two cards on the table and Remington dealt two new ones. Murmurs of agreement arose around the table as Remington passed out cards and the game continued forward.

"The child you saw the couple return home with?" he began, eyeing Zach.

"Yeah?"

"Despite the couple's efforts to have a large family she is, as of now, their only child," Remington expounded. "A routine case of strep throat a couple years back saw the child being admitted into Pediatric Intensive Care with kidney failure."

"From strep throat?" Jason stepped in, flummoxed. "Bo must have had strep throat a half dozen times by now. It's as common as, well, the common cold."

"Mmmm," Remington hummed his agreement, dealing himself a pair of cards then setting aside the deck, "Very common, yet apparently when not caught soon enough can have deadly consequences, as was the case for little Emma. While most cases of kidney failure caused by strep can be halted with proper treatment, that wasn't to be Emma's fate. A few months back her parents were informed she'd gone into complete failure and would require a transplant to survive."

" _From strep!?_ " Jason repeated, horrified.

"Mmmm," Remington confirmed with another hum. "I'll see you and raise you," he informed Monroe, dropping chips into the pot. "Her parents insisted they be tested and when the mother was found to be a match, she volunteered to donate one of her kidneys to her daughter. The community rallied, holding fundraisers to help cover the costs, and while those funds did cover deductibles and allowed a little left over for future costs: Costs neither warned of nor anticipated, rightfully so."

"Costs?" Monroe queried. "I call," he added, adding several more chips to the pot.

"Emma requires medication for the remainder of her life to prevent her body from rejecting her mother's kidney." Remington lay his hand on the table, "Two pairs, kings over jacks."

"You've bested me again, Mick." Monroe displayed his hand of queens over nines, then collected the cards to take his turn as dealer. "Please, continue."

"That medication comes at a cost of eight-thousand dollars a month," he informed the table with a lift of his brows.

"Good Lord." This from Thomas.

"Holy crap!" This from Zach.

"How the hell is that even possible?" This from Jason.

"A maelstrom of cost of manufacturing due to supply and demand coupled with corporate greed I'd say," Monroe speculated, as he shuffled the cards.

"Precisely," Remington affirmed, then turned his eyes to Zach. "You saw their home. This is a family of modest means, earning an honest living that is enough to provide for their most basic of needs, little more." Zach nodded his agreement.

"From what I saw, there's no way they have a spare eight grand sitting around each month."

"If we're honest, most people don't," Donald interjected. "I'm a dentist and professor. I earn a solid living, but I can promise Frannie and I aren't putting back that kind of money each month."

"Precisely," Remington agreed. "They managed to pull it off the first few months, using what was left of funds raised by the community, putting the balance on their credit card then selling what assets they could. They couldn't sustain it. They turned to their families of equally modest means for help and determined that by all contributing they could scrape together half the required funds each month. When they arrived home today?" he addressed the question to Zach.

"Yeah?"

"They'd just returned home from the hospital with Emma," he informed him, then returned his attention to the rest of the group while sliding a chip towards the pot for the opening bid. "A half-dose of the mediation wasn't enough and the child began rejecting the kidney."

"Good Lord," Thomas repeated his earlier oath.

"Precisely," Remington returned. "When the couple confessed they'd cut her medication by half as they were unable to afford it, it was recommended they place Emma in foster care where she would receive Medi-Cal to pay for the medications."

"Medi-Cal?" Jason questioned.

"Medical insurance provided by California for low-income families," Donald supplied, adding chips to the pile and requesting two cards. "Why doesn't the couple apply for Medi-Cal themselves?"

"They have and were summarily turned down having been found to exceed the income levels," Remington replied as he contributed to pot and exchanged a trio of cards.

"How is that possible?" Monroe asked, amazed. "Clearly they are in need if they cannot afford the mediation required to keep their child alive and healthy."

"I dunno," Remington admitted. "We've Jacoby looking into the matter as we speak. In the meantime, with no resources and with Emma about to run out of medication again—"

"The couple decided the only way to provide for her was to turn to crime," Zach concluded. Remington hummed his confirmation again. "But they turned over the money to you and Mrs. S."

"They did," Remington acknowledged.

"So what are they supposed to do now?" Jason stepped in to ask. "They don't have the money, can't get insurance and their kid's almost out of her medication. They just turn her over to foster care?!" Clearly appalled, he looked to Remington for an answer as Thomas folded and stood to retrieve the sport's coat he'd hung on the back of a bar stool.

"You know Laura," he replied. "She can't stand idly by and watch while an injustice is perpetrated upon good people, at least not if she can do anything about it. On the way back to the Agency this afternoon, she stopped at their pharmacy and paid for next month's supply. Jacoby delivered it to them when he met with them."

"So, they make it through another month," Donald commented. "Then what?"

"Then, the next six months is on Catherine and I," Thomas announced, sitting back down on the table and holding a slip of paper towards Remington. With a lift of single, quizzical brow, he glanced down at the check he held in hand made out for fifty-thousand dollars.

"Father, I can't let you—" he began to protest, then clamped his mouth shut when Thomas raised his hand, commanding he should cease.

"I knew a man once," Thomas began in an intentionally light tone, so that no one who didn't know the truth behind the tale already would discern how close to home the story would strike, "He took in a child who'd spent years living on the streets, struggling from day-to-day just to survive. The man fed the child, clothed him, gave him a home to live in and even provided the child with best of tutors. One day, I asked him what had compelled him to do such a thing rather than just hand the lad a couple of quid and send him on his way. He shrugged a shoulder at me, then struggled for some time to find the words. Two decades after a chance meeting between him and that child on the street, he still couldn't fully explain it."

Thomas glanced at his son and found he'd drawn Remington's rapt attention as it was a story he'd never shared with him. It took him a second to register game play had stopped and all at the table had turned their eyes to him. He continued.

"'I've asked myself that question a thousand times… likely more,' he said to me. 'I've neither been known for my philanthropy nor does philanthropy hold much of an interest to me. The more for me the better, that was always my way of thinking. In my days, I'd come across more street urchins than I could possibly count, turning a blind eye on their plight as it was no concern of mine. Yet, when I'd snatched up the lad after he'd picked my pocket clean, I think I already knew how it was going to end. I'd taken a good look at the boy's face, painted with anger and a fear – that if you'd told him you'd seen there, he would have denied to the end of his days – but those things couldn't hide the promise of the God-given intelligence that shone through it all. I found myself wondering what the boy might have been if not for someone having just tossed him away like their rubbish, then discovered now that I'd truly seen him, I couldn't turn a blind eye. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully explain why I did what I did, but now, as I look back on my life while it draws to a close, I can say with absolute confidence that taking the boy in and giving him the chance to be who he was meant to be stands alone as my greatest accomplishment."

Thomas looked at Remington, pointedly.

"'That he chose not to turn a blind eye on the child is the greatest generosity I've ever been witness to. To know there is a child whose problems might be solved by nothing more than sharing a tiny bit of what Catherine and I have so much of? Not to do so would be to disparage the memory of that man." Collecting the cards, he picked them up and began shuffling them. Two seats over, Remington schooled his features to hide his reaction to the story, then cleared his throat.

"In that case… Thank you," he said, sincerely.

"Pleasure. Now then," he looked around the table, "All in?..."

* * *

Laura slapped her palms against the bed in frustration. Rising to a seated position, she drew her hands through her hair. She'd been staring at the ceiling for more than hour. Calling a spade for what it was, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her robe.

Automatically, she was first drawn to the children's rooms. Sophie remained soundly tucked while Olivia required a bit of untangling of the sheet before she, too, was covered once more. In Holt's room, as it so often did, her heart simultaneously soared and tugged as she sat down next to her small son, drawing a hand lightly over his glossy, raven hair. Not even four yet, and he'd already known more love and security than his father had known in the entirety of his childhood. Her eyes grew misty as she tried to imagine where Remington had been at this age… and with whom. So lost in her thoughts was she, that she wasn't aware of Holt's bright blue eyes blinking open, his brow pinching slightly as he looked up at her.

"Don't be sad, Mommy," he whispered. Her eyes refocused on the present, and she smiled softly.

"I'm not sad, Little Man," she insisted in a quiet voice as she rearranged the sheet and comforter around him, "Just tired."

"Will you sing to me?"

"You know I will. Roll over and I'll rub your back." Dutifully, he rolled to his side and snuggled his head down on his pillow.

"Mommy?" he spoke before she could sing the first note. "Can we make sandcaskles tomorrow?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can find some time to do that." Holt smiled and closed his eyes.

"Okay."

" _When a star is born  
They possess a gift or two…"_

Before she'd finished the last verse, Holt was fast asleep once more. With a brush of her lips to the top of the head, she left his room, leaving the door open a crack. Downstairs, she rummaged through the fridge finding nothing that piqued her interest. Filling a glass with water, she took a sip, then set it on the counter as a thought came to mind, leading her to the garage. Tugging a steamer trunk from down off of a low shelf, she opened it and rummaged through its contents until she found what she was in search of. Hefting the trunk back into its storage spot, she retrieved her glass of water from the kitchen then retired to her office again.

After her house had burned to the ground back in '83, in a surprisingly empathetic move, Abigail had shipped to her the steamer trunk in which Laura had stored her most valued treasures during her childhood. That steamer trunk had proved to be both blessing and curse: Blessing in that it restored to her a few precious keepsakes from her beloved grandmother; a curse in that DesCoines had once helped himself to one of the journals she'd written in during her teen years, providing him insight on where she and Remington might attempt to hide when he was hunting them in '84.

She ran a hand over the cover of the album she'd brought into the office with her. Even touching the book, made her pulse race and her heart pound. When she'd found it in the bottom of the trunk ten years before, she'd been blindsided by the panic attack that had come out of nowhere. One second she'd been trying to swallow the heart she'd found suddenly in her throat and the next she was on her knees, arms wrapped around her middle, gasping for breath. When Remington had arrived at her loft shortly afterwards for their planned golf outing, a part of her had longed to fold herself into his arms, to borrow some of his strength, for him to bestow some pearls of wisdom upon her – all of which he'd done one rainy night, after she'd lost her home…

But she hadn't done that, of course. He'd already seen her at her weakest not too many weeks before, and in those days she was still struggling not only to maintain some form of equal footing with the man but was often haunted by the thought she might be nothing more than another mark to him… a conquest. No, she hadn't turned to him. Not then. He'd never known a thing was wrong at all.

Now, a decade later, when she could have easily turned to him, she didn't need to. From time-to-time she felt the early vestiges of a panic attack coming on, but they were easily willed away. It was as if in allowing herself to love Remington, she'd found in herself a strength she hadn't known before. In direct antithesis of her fears that he might consume her, he'd fortified her instead.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the first page.

 _Abigail, appearing drawn and tired, propped up in her hospital bed looking down at the newborn Laura swaddled in her arms._

And right below…

 _Her father with his hip propped on the hospital bed, an arm behind Abigail's shoulders, grinning down at the newest addition to their family._

Page-after-page, her childhood played out.

 _First steps, her mother evidently behind the camera capturing Laura toddling towards her father's outstretched arms._

 _First Christmas Eve, her father pretending to put her inside an oversized stocking hung from the fireplace mantle._

 _Her, a toddler with chubby legs, standing at the water's edge with her father and Frances._

 _Her first day of school, she and her father at the circus, fishing from the pier, baseball games, Confirmation, First Communion, birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Halloween and vacations._

Just as her father was the most prevalent figure in the memories of her childhood, so he figured prominently in the album, either appearing in the picture beside her or having snapped the photo of her. As she came to the end of the album, several pages remaining blank, the book revealed a yellow paper envelope containing the last pictures taken before her father had left. Picking it up, she fingered the flap. Suspecting what she'd find within, that envelope had never been opened, its contents never revealed.

And, it would remain that way for a little way longer. Closing the album and setting the packet of pictures on top of it, she stood and crossed the room. With the cinematic flair that was so much a part of guiding him, Remington had had one of their two personal safes in the home built into the bookcase on the back wall of the office where only the most stealthy thieves might know it was carefully concealed. Releasing the hidden latch, the wood panel swung outwards revealing the door of the safe. A series of numbers punched into the key pad, and the safe door released with a click.

She paused then with determination reached for the file, the file that had been sequestered here since the day they'd moved into Casa Malaga: The only complete file on Anthony Roselli in existence with all his atrocities – at least ones that were known – contained within its pages… and fully illustrated. It had been left undisturbed from the day it had been placed within the confines of the safe. An insurance policy, a refresher course before they testified at the next trial, that's all it was ever meant to be… After all, Roselli would never be a free man again.

Until, of course, he was.

Setting a legal pad to the left of the file, she opened and forced herself to work her way through it with professional detachment, scribbling notes as thoughts arose.

 _Where did Roselli stay while in LA?_

 _Did he have the cabin in Mexico built or he had he purchased it from someone? If he'd purchased it, had it been a private sale or through the conventional avenue of a real estate agent? If private, had he purchased it from an associate, a potential contact?_

Her hand faltered, her fingers flexed involuntarily and the pen fell to the pad when a thought occurred to her, thoroughly stunned they hadn't asked themselves the question previously:

 _Was the house even his at all or was he a squatter? And if that was the case, where was the actual owner?_

A chill coursed down her spine and the small hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. How many more secrets hadn't she and Remington uncovered in their pursuit of the answer to why Roselli had targeted them to begin with? She'd been tunnel-visioned, to say the least, following only the clues she'd believed would take them to the truth, allowing to fall by the wayside other clues that might route them in a different direction.

 _Who was the contact in MI5 who had given Roselli the information on where his biological mother could be found? Did this contact still have an allegiance to Roselli?_

 _Where had he stayed in London in '85? In '86?_

 _Where did he go on leave while stationed in Vietnam? Does he have any contacts from his days in Vietnam?_

 _Women in his past. Are more missing? Dead?_

Four pages of questions later, she came upon the pictures of herself in the file – pictures that documented the numerous injuries she'd sustained when she'd been his captive. Unprepared to take that particular trip down memory lane that evening, she set down her pen and closed the file. _Tomorrow,_ she silently declared. Lying the legal pad on top of the file, she shoved it aside.

Rubbing her face with her hands, she drew her fingers through her hair, her eyes falling on the photo album, that packet of pictures suddenly the more attractive of options. A puff of air passed her lips, as she reached for the bold yellow envelope, she picked it up and peeled back the flap. With a final, deeply drawn breath that she released slowly, she pulled out the pictures…

Her Sweet Sixteen party. The last day she had a father… and the last day her world made sense for a long, long time to come…

* * *

"I shall be certain to tell Jocelyn of your healthy contribution to her new bauble, my old friend," Monroe promised, good naturedly ribbing Remington over his loss. Remington shook the hand that was offered.

"The least I can do, given how often I've emptied your pockets," he grinned, then raised the same hand in a parting gesture as Monroe climbed into his car and drove away. Shoving his hands in his pocket, he ambled over to the limo where Thomas stood next to the rear door. Impulsively, for the second time on the evening, he embraced his father in a hug.

"Thank you," he spoke, before stepping back. "Daniel never told me." Thomas lay a hand against his son's upper arm.

"He loved you, son, and couldn't have been more proud of you if you were his." With a pat of his hand against his arm, Thomas turned away and opened the limo door. "I'll be certain to inform Catherine that Sophie needs a bit of time with her Grans. Goodnight, son." Remington closed the door then leaned forward to address Fred through the open window. "Thanks, mate." Standing, he thumped the roof a pair of times, then stood back to watch as the vehicle drove away.

He scrubbed at his face with his hands as he walked in the front door, flexing his jaw as he secured the entrance. Long didn't begin to describe the day that had begun well before dawn and tomorrow promised to be another. Just after two and the children would be tumbling into their room no later than seven, ready to make breakfast then dress and run Saturday morning errands. Upstairs he stepped into Sophie's room, covered Livvie again, then set the baby monitor on the dresser. A peek into Holt's room, confirmed the lad soundly slept. Tugging his shirt over his head as he walked down the hall, he was giving his belly a scratch when he walked into the master suite.

His eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side, his sleep deprived brain taking a heartbeat to confirm he was peering at a bed quite devoid of Laura. Automatically, he leaned backwards and looked back down the hallway towards the children's rooms and discounted any possibility she could have passed him in the hall. Stepping a little further into the room, he confirmed the bathroom was dark. With a scratch of his head, he blinked a pair of times at the bed, its comforter and sheets thrown back attesting to her having been there at some point.

 _Where the bloody hell has she taken herself off to?_

He reversed course. Back downstairs he found the family room and kitchen empty and the terrace doors locked. He found her in her office, arms spread before her, side of her head resting on the desk, sound asleep. Out of habit, his eyes skimmed the contents of her desk. Pretend her worry over Roselli was minimal all she wished, once again her deeds pointed to far deeper concern. But it was the pictures scattered around and partially under her that really stirred his curiosity. Leaning down, his eyes roamed over the prints: A birthday party it would seem, given the banner hung on a living room that read simply, 'Happy Birthday.' He quickly found Laura amongst the throngs of teenagers, then his eyes zeroed in on Jack. A birthday party for Laura or Frances then, but which? Tonight was not the time to ask.

Bending over, he cupped her shoulders in his hands and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Let's go to bed, love," he murmured next to her ear. She stirred beneath his hands, blinking a trio of times before lifting her head and trying to focus bleary, bloodshot eyes on him. He chuckled softly and reached down to peel a photograph from her cheek and then lay it on the desk. She took his hand when he offered her it, thankful that she had when she swayed on her feet.

"I didn't intend to fall asleep," she mumbled, still half-asleep. He skimmed an arm around her waist, steadying her as she walked with a slightly drunken list.

"Never thought that you did," he replied smoothly, then added with a cheeky lift of his brow, "Although I seem to recall a promise to keep our bed warm…"

"I was restless," she answered, resting her head against him as they walked.

"A pity I wasn't there to distract you."

"Mmmm," she hummed her agreement. "How was your game?" she wondered as they began their ascent up the stairs.

"Lost my shirt." Her hand skimmed over his bare flesh.

"So I see," she managed the playful retort. At the top of the stairs, they replayed their actions from earlier in the evening: She prepared to turn right down the hall and he spun her left.

"All three snug in their beds," he assured.

In their bedroom, Laura required no prodding, slipping into bed and drawing the covers up over herself without a single word. As sleep began to descend again, she was vaguely aware of Remington's movements as he stripped off his clothes, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, then deposited his clothing in the hamper and stored away his shoes in the closet. She snuggled her backside into his front when he slipped into bed behind her. Claiming his hand, she tangled their fingers together and was asleep before he finishing brushing his lips against her cheek in goodnight.

* * *

It was enough to make a grown man cry when Sophie's terrified screams punctured through his dreams not even an hour later. Still, Remington didn't give it a second thought as he bound from the bed, in hot pursuit of Laura who'd left their bed and their room in a flash…


	34. Chapter 30: Family Business

Chapter 30: Family Business

A sharp elbow pressed to the center of his chest tore Remington from his dreams. Dragging open leaden lids that felt like sandpaper, he found himself nose-to-nose with his first born.

"Da," Livvie drew out his name with some urgency, "We're late."

His brows drew together and he licked his lips several times, trying to get his brain to sputter to a start. _Late? Late for what?_ His hand fumbled over the surface of his bedside table until it located his watch. Squinting, he read the face: 8:08. _Ah, damn, the girls are late for school. Laura's going to have fits._

"Go get dressed for school and I'll be right in," he instructed, preparing to pry himself from the warm bed. The face of his oldest child appeared next to Livvie's above him.

"Today's Saturday," Sophie informed him in a serious tone. "We don't have school today." He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again as he reviewed that information. _Poker last evening_ , he recalled, _Got it._

"Then go wake your brother—" Sophie's face disappeared.

"Wake up, Holt," he heard to his right. He turned his head on his pillow and watched his son's head pop up on the other side of Laura. That earned another long blink. When had Holt joined them?

"I awake," Holt announced.

"So I see, mo mhac." His eyes narrowed on Laura's back as he heard what sounded suspiciously like a giggle coming from her direction. A hand patting his chest had him turning his head, nearly bumping noses with Livvie who still hovered over him.

"Da, we're late," she implored, "And you said we could get my invitations today." Sophie's face rejoined Livvie's.

"And me and Livvie need new tights," she reminded, "And you told Mommy you'd get Holt his shoes." He had the satisfaction of hearing Laura grunt when Holt's knee connected with her side as he scrambled over her. Playing possum came with its costs, after all.

"Light up shoes," Holt interjected, then added gravely, "But I can't wear them to school." Remington frowned again. _Light up shoes? What in the blue blazes are light up shoes?_ He shook off the thought. Time enough, later, to figure that out.

Laura gave up the ruse of being asleep and, flinging back the covers, sat up.

"Girls, go get dressed and make your beds." Sophie and Livvie scrambled off the bed and disappeared from the room. "Little man, your clothes are hanging on your desk chair. Go put them on, then as soon as Da and I shower, one of us will be in to help with your shoes.

"Okay, Mommy," he agreed, lowering himself to the floor then taking off in the direction of his sisters. Laura slipped out of the bed and crossed the room to close the bedroom door while Remington sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"My kingdom for a few more winks," he muttered. She flashed a pair of dimples in his direction.

"You managed to get a full hour more than you normally would," she pointed out, skimming her hands down the front of the pajama top she wore, releasing buttons.

"Yes," he lengthened the word, "And in two nights I've managed to get less sleep than most get in a singular evening," he griped. Those dimples appeared again. She knew precisely how to both stop his current sulk and invigorate him.

"The bedroom door's closed _,_ " she stated the obvious, then shrugged off the shirt and allowed it to flutter to the floor, leaving her in nothing more than a scant pair of lace and silk panties. His eyes soaked her in as his tongue flicked against his lips. "I'm going to shower." His face fell. She waited until she neared the bathroom door then leaned back to peer at her crestfallen husband. "Do I really need to issue an invitation… big guy?" He grinned wide and left the bed as quickly as his children had a minute before.

"You know me, Laura," he replied cheekily, "Wherever you go, I follow." Even though he couldn't see it – given he was taking up the rear to speak – he _felt_ it when she rolled his eyes.

"As long as where I lead doesn't require work on your part," she shot back.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Every now and then you come up with an idea I'm more than willing to put my back into…"

* * *

Remington sniffed at the air as he descended the stairs into the family room behind the children. Whatever was cooking below smelled divine – a cruel joke, if you asked this man, for if Laura had her hand in whatever it was, it's taste would not live up to its aroma.

"Thea Lina!" Livvie shrieked, taking off running.

He couldn't stop the grin that spread over his face. Despite another night without enough sleep by half, the day was starting on a fine note. First, a vigorous shag with his lovely wife beneath the hot spray of the shower to get his blood pumping, and now breakfast made by his sister's hand to fill his stomach. Yes, a fine start indeed. In the kitchen, he bussed Lina on her cheek in greeting.

"I honestly can't recall the last time breakfast was prepared by a hand other than my own," he mused.

"It was either cook or choose to starve while awaiting you to pry yourself from bed," Lina teased.

"It's not even quite nine in the morning!" he protested.

" _I've_ been up for hours," Lina sniffed, then turned her attention to the girls, handing Sophie a tray of cinnamon sprinkled French toast and Livvie a platter of eggs scrambled with baby spinach, onions, feta cheese and fresh tomatoes. Without a word of instruction, the girls carried the food to the dining room and set it on the table, then sat in their chairs waiting on the adults.

"That may be, but some of us aren't tucked snug in our beds by ten," he shot back, good naturedly. Picking up the pitcher of orange juice and tray of bacon and ham, a smirk twitched at her lips as she walked into the dining room. Little did her big brother know, but she hadn't been in her bed at all… and there had been very little sleep involved.

Laura caught the look as she stepped into the dining room.

"A word of advice?" Laura offered in an undertone when she stepped near her sister-in-law. "If Xenos sees _that_ look on your face, he'll know _exactly_ what you and Jacoby were up to last night." Lina laughed quietly. "We'll talk after he leaves." Lina nodded her agreement as they took their seats.

"Guess what, Thea Lina?" Livvie challenged, excitement gleaming in her eyes.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin, I am sure," Lina replied.

"I'm getting a puppy for my birthday!" Remington rubbed at the back of his neck as he took his seat.

"I never said you're getting a puppy," he reminded, "I merely said I'd give the matter some thought." Livvie shrugged off her father's remark.

"Mommy said I can have a puppy," Livvie informed Lina with a confident air that suggested she knew who the chief decision maker in the Steele household was.

"Actually," Laura stepped in to correct, "I said it was fine by me if your father agrees."

"And Da gets to do my party this year," Livvie continued, unconcerned with the admonition, "And guess where I'm having it?" She didn't both to wait for her aunt to set aside her orange juice and respond, instead forging on, "At Chuck E. Cheese!"

Lina promptly choked on her juice, her eyes flying to Laura - who she found suddenly wholly preoccupied with making Holt's plate – to her brother, who sported a Cheshire cat grin – one that she suspected he wouldn't be wearing if he had even the tiniest of inklings what a Chuck E. Cheese was. Her eyes returned to Laura who gave her a look, from beneath her lashes, that said they'd speak of it later.

"How very exciting that will be," she told her niece, when she caught her breath. _What has Xen done now?_ There wasn't a single doubt in her mind that Laura was teaching her big brother a lesson of some form or fashion.

"I left the address on the entryway table," Laura informed her husband, "You'll want to stop by and make the reservation while you're out this morning." Remington's fork stopped midway to his mouth.

"Reservation?" he laughed. "We're not speaking L'Ornate or Chez Rives, Laura." _A reservation,_ he guffawed silently, _How preposterous._

"Chuck E. Cheese is also one of the most popular places in the city," Laura advised, then added, "With limited party rooms."

"Party rooms?" he frowned, taking a bite of his eggs.

"Party rooms," she confirmed. "You need a space for everyone to sit while they eat and have cake, then tables for the presents."

"Ah." When explained that way, it made sense. "Consider it done." Laura's eyes fell on Sophie who was busily rearranging the food on her plate, but not eating a thing.

"Girls," she waited until both pairs of eyes were on her, "Starting today, Tank and Dozer won't be helping us at school anymore."

"Is the bad man gone?" Sophie dared to ask, with hopeful eyes.

"As a matter of fact, the bad man is very, very far away," Laura assured. She felt Lina's questioning eyes upon her and gave her a look that assured they'd speak of this later too. "And I have some news I think all three of you will find _very_ exciting." Livvie shoved up on her knees on her chair, almost vibrating with anticipation.

"Are we getting a new baby?!" she guessed, eagerly. Laura's mouth fell open, but her momentary shock was nothing compared to Remington mimicking his sister a minute earlier, choking on the piece of ham he'd been swallowing, leading to a fit of coughing.

"Good Lord, no," he sputtered, "Your mother and I are already outnumbered by the three of you. What on earth would put that idea into your head?" Livvie's face fell, clearly disappointed, and she shrugged a shoulder.

"When Lucy's Mommy told her she had good news, she got a new baby," she answered, with seven-year-old logic.

"Well, _this_ Mommy isn't having any more babies," Laura replied, looking at each child, pointedly. "Our family's already perfect, as far as I'm concerned. But…" she drew out the word "Auntie Mildred wants extra time with you and Sophie, so she'll be helping out in your classroom for a while." The two girls gasped, tickled by the news. "As for you, little man, Uncle Rusty insisted that if Auntie Mildred can help in your sisters' classrooms, then _he_ can help in yours." While Rusty had, indeed, volunteered his time, the idea, much as the original, had been Mildred's inspiration. He might not be a detective, but he was an observant man and should be able to spot anyone that was out of place.

"Will he do circle time with us?" Holt wondered. Circle time was a big deal in his preschool classroom.

"Well, I don't know, but I imagine if anyone can convince him, it's you." Why pretend otherwise? Rusty doted on the boy.

"Speaking of news," Remington stood and pulled his money clip out of his pocket, and handed Laura the check given to him by Thomas the evening before. "This should cover Emma's expenses for the next several months." Laura's eyes widened when she saw whose account the check was drawn on and the amount.

"Remington, you didn't ask—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he frowned. Never mind he'd never asked his father for so much as a single pence, but they were quite well-off in their own right, and he'd been of a mind to cover the expenses themselves, had it not meant so much to Thomas. He said as much. "Young Burton brought up the Smith's last evening, and when I explained why we'd be developing sudden amnesia where they are concerned, Father volunteered." Her eyes narrowed on him, sensing there was more to the story that he was unlikely to divulge until they were alone.

"The Smiths will be beside themselves," she commented instead. "I'll have Jacoby set everything up and let them know. Lina, how are Selena and her girls doing?"

"The children see the move as a grand adventure," Lina shared, then shook her head. "Selena waits for you to take it all away once you find what you are after." Remington stood up from the table and picked up his empty plate and cup to carry them into the kitchen.

"A feeling I can certainly relate to," he commented. Laura turned her head to hide her wince. He would understand – hadn't she been preoccupied by thoughts along a similar line, just last night?

"May I be excused?" Sophie requested.

"Me too?" Livvie chimed in. Laura glanced at the girls' plates: Olivia had eaten nearly everything and Sophie's appetite wouldn't return until her anxiety over 'the bad man' departed.

"Yes, you may," she consented. "Help clear the table then go get your shoes on and grab a sweater or light jacket, just case. It's a little chilly this morning." While it was predicted to reach the low-eighties by mid-afternoon, anything more than ten degrees below that and the girls – particularly Livvie – were prone to feeling cold.

"Okay, Mommy," Livvie chirped happily, while Sophie nodded her head.

Lina stood as well.

"Holt and I will see to his shoes, a jacket as well," Lina volunteered, while taking her plate to the kitchen. "I will return shortly to assist with the dishes."

With a final bite of her French toast, Laura dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, then left the table as well carrying her and Holt's plates and glasses.

"Let me," Remington jumped to offer, watching the teetering glassware. She set the plates on the counter while he places the glasses in the sink, before turning to her and slipping his arms around her hips. "I know Holt's been promised sandcastle building on the beach, and later we've the Halloween party commitment at Monroe and Jocelyn's, but I've a slight… tweak… to those plans I'd like to suggest." Looping her arms around his neck, she toyed with the hair at his collar. He was always in a good mood after morning sex and tended to seek her out more throughout the day.

"And what might that be?"

"If you enlist Lina to take the children to the beach, I'll have Burton join them on a guise of looking for a free meal after an afternoon in the sun." She lifted her brows and widened her eyes.

"And you and I? What will we be doing?" He swayed with her in his arms.

"If I have my way about it? It will be just you.." he touched his lips to her forehead "…me…" then to her cheek "…and the hammock." He finished the proposal with a brief brush of his lips against hers. Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes ceilingward. The idea was tempting. They could use some time alone, even if they spent most of that napping and the weather would be perfect.

"I can do that, " she agreed.

"Da! We're ready!" Livvie called from the family room.

"Coming, coming," he called back. Giving Laura another quick kiss, he patted her bum. "Duty calls." Smiling, she followed him out of the kitchen. As frustrating and exasperating as the man could be, there were days she truly appreciated all his… assets, she smirked as she eyed his bum. There was something about the man in a pair of jeans.

"Uh, Laura…" Her eyes flew upwards as he turned around. "…What are 'light shoes'?..."

* * *

"Xenos knows," Laura warned Lina. "He can't prove it… yet… but he knows. I'd suggest you come clean before he forces your hand."

The two women relaxed in chaise lounges on the deck overlooking the beach, a large mug of coffee clutched in Laura's hands, while Lina contented herself with a glass of water.

"Forces my hand, how?" Lina laughed. "By telling Mama and Papa about Jacoby and I? I am a woman of thirty-five years, not a child. Mama and Papa have no illusions that I am an innocent, but they know, too, that I am not indiscriminate."

"Oh, Marcos and Elena hadn't even crossed my mind," Laura answered with a breezy tone, then took a sip of her coffee before turning her head to look at Lina, "And I don't think it would occur to Xenos either, if only out of brotherly loyalty. No, I was thinking more along the lines of Zeth and Christos." Lina crossed her arms, irritated.

"It is at times like these I ask why I was cursed with older brothers," she groused. "A bit of privacy where it concerns my personal life shouldn't be too much to ask." Laura laughed at the complaint.

"If I learned anything with your brother it's that there is no such thing as privacy when it comes to your personal life, no matter how discrete you are. He and I never openly advertised our relationship around family or friends, even most business associates. But those who did know or who figured it out?" She laughed again. "Murphy was alternately furious and horrified, sure Xenos was either conning me or would simply end up breaking my heart when he moved on. Bernice was constantly telling me to just 'go for it,'" she threw up a hand, "forget about all the issues between us. Daniel…" she laughed and shook her head at the memories "…Daniel tried everything he could think of to try to convince Remington to put at least a continent between us. And Mildred? Well, you can imagine that." The memories tickled her, and she laughed again. "Hell, even the maître des at restaurants we favored had their opinions."

"How am I admit to something when I am not even sure what it is?" Lina complained. "We have no words between us, Jacoby and I, no promises, no commitments."

"Welcome to my life for four years," Laura commented drily. "I'm not suggesting you tell Xenos all the dirty little details and he won't ask for them. Right now, he's amused that you believe you're 'putting one over on him', as he'd say. Eventually, he'll stop finding it amusing and feel you're insulting his intelligence. Once that happens, well, he's going to have his fun with you. A good deal of it, at that." She turned to look at Lina, amusement glimmering in her eyes. "In fact, I'll take bets that if you haven't ''fessed up' before we go to Greece in June, he'll toss you to the wolves with Ioseph." That thought drew a growl from Lina's throat.

"He would, too," she conceded unhappily.

"Well, that does seem to be an Androkus tradition," Laura smiled.

"A tradition you seem to enjoy," Lina accused with a laugh.

"I won't lie: It has its moments."

The two shared another laugh then fell silent for a minute, both contemplating their thoughts and Laura nursing her coffee. Lina was first to break the silence.

"Why does our Sophie speak of 'the bad man' once more?" she queried with concern. Laura turned her head and considered the other woman while letting out a long slow breath then turning her eyes back to the water.

"Xenos and I were going to speak with you this afternoon, when we'd hope we'd know a little more." She recounted Roselli's escape, Tank and Dozer's reappearance, Sophie's reaction and where matters stood with Roselli at the moment. "By having Mildred and Rusty in their classrooms and keeping Dozer and Tank out of sight, we're hoping it will calm Sophie's fears," she concluded.

"It has been so long since Sophie had made mention of the man, it was my hopes she'd forgotten that time of her life," Lina noted with regret.

"So had I, but I've come to realize now she'll likely never forget," Laura commented, thoughtfully. "Your brother certainly hasn't. Xenos can recall events from when he was as young as two as vividly and accurately as if they happened only yesterday."

"Sophie should not have to live with the sins of her father," Lina declared adamantly.

"No, she shouldn't," Laura sighed. "In the meantime, Roselli's escape means you have a decision to make as well. We all know what he's capable of, and although he's never gone after the people that matter to Xenos and I before, there's always the possibility he will just to get to us. You may want to consider staying elsewhere until—"

"I am an Androkus. An adversary of one is an adversary of all. We do not run, but stand together," Lina stated emphatically before Laura cold finish her thought. "We will speak of this no more. Now, tell me how it is Xenos plans our Olivia's party after he was forbidden from doing so again? What has he done?" Laura grinned at her.

"That obvious, huh?" she asked without apology.

"Only to me. Xen is - how would you say?" She gave a nod when she found the word. "Clueless. So, what is it he has done?" Laura sighed and this time it was she who crossed her arms in annoyance.

"Oh, he made it _very_ clear how he feels about my 'intractable need to control everything," she said with distaste. "It's not as though I enjoy always having to be the practical one, the logical one, the _rational_ one, making lists, weighing pros and cons. Does he think I relish the children labeling me as 'no fun' and mean? Well, I don't, but someone has to set the boundaries, make the rules, establish the expectations and we both know he's not going to be the one to do it. He's so wants them to have everything he didn't as a child, and I understand that, I really do. But that just means I have to work even harder to temper his instinct to give them anything and everything their hearts desire."

"Xenos will see planning Olivia's party as a victory, that you have conceded he is correct," Lina predicted. Laura smiled, slyly.

"At first," she agreed, then slanted her eyes in her sister-in-law's direction, "But it won't last and in the meantime the experience will paint a very vivid picture on why he and I complement one another not only as partners but parents, as well. And that lesson should start right about the time he arrives at Chuck E. Cheese this morning." Lina beamed, a bit of the devil gleaming in her eyes.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall!" she laughed. "Xen will be positively horrified. He'll detest all of it: The food the dirty seats, the sticky fingers, the noise, the chaos!" She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. It wasn't often she was able to witness Xenos thoroughly out of his element and she wouldn't miss this for anything in the world. "When is the party to be held?" Laura lifted a shoulder and dropped it, while a mischievous smile danced on her lips.

"You'll have to ask your brother. He's planning it." She tapped her chin with a finger as though in thought. "Although, I wouldn't write the first date he gives you in blood…"

* * *

Closing the door of his Explorer, Remington rubbed at the back of his neck.

He usually enjoyed his Saturday morning time alone with the children, but this particular Saturday was threatening to make his head pound. They'd started their day at the dance store to pick up those tights, buying each girl a half dozen pair of white and a half dozen pairs of pink to tide them over for what he dearly hoped was a few months. Shopping as a whole he rather enjoyed. Shopping in a dance store where you were the only man present was quite another matter. Laura, who continued to studiously avoid shopping unless absolutely necessary, would have fits if she knew just how many women had made overtures towards him in this store – some subtle, some blatant… accompanied by a molestation of his bum on more than one occasion.

Actually, he'd reconsidered as they drove toward Target to purchase those 'light shoes', Laura would probably insist she tag along for the next trip to the dance store… not to ward off the piranhas, but to watch on with amusement as he tried to evade the women… and the occasional wandering hand.

The trip to Target had been delightfully brief… and productive. On a hunch he'd insisted they check out the store's stock on birthday invitations and Livvie had giddily snatched up three packs of Rugrats invitations that featured a cartoon of a rather intimidating looking blonde-haired little girl.

Much like Target the trip to the market went smoothly and by eleven-fifteen he was pulling the Explorer into the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese. At this rate, they'd be home at a little after noon and by one-thirty he and Laura should be swaying gently in the hammock. He drew a hand through his hair. For the second evening in a row, he'd found little rest – and not because of Sophie's nightmares or her pesky pet. When he wasn't keeping one eye open on Laura, prepared to leap should another nightmare befall her, his own memories – and vivid imagination - had him waking in a cold sweat. He needed a little alone time with her, to find his balance… and to dig up a bit of that icy calm with which she approached the most ferocious of storms.

"Da?" Livvie's voice tore him from his thoughts and with a shake of his head, he grinned at her in the rear view mirror.

"Let's go see what this Chuck E. Cheese of yours is about, eh?"

The cacophony of bells, whistles, chimes, bangs and children's shouts and screams that greeted them when he opened the door was deafening, and as if that assault on one's senses was not enough, the lights that whirred, twinkled, danced and spun completed it. Aghast, his eyes scanned the room: Hard-wooden booths with vinyl-cushioned backs positioned too closely together to make for comfortable seating. Children jumping, screaming, coughing, sneezing, shouting, and crying in bounce house and ball pit. Children running amok from one video game to the next and tugging the hands of presumed parents, hoping to grovel a bit more money out of them.

He promptly stooped down before Livvie.

"A stór, wouldn't you prefer to have a beach party? Hmmm?" he suggested. "We could build a fire and cook—"

"No, I want my party here," Livvie insisted.

"The skating rink," he seized on the idea. "I seem to recall you speaking of a skating party just a week or two ago. Wouldn't you rather—"

"No, I want my party here," she repeated. She tilted her head to the side when a thought came to mind. "Da, can I have a sleepover?"

"You mean like having a few of your little friends over for the night to watch movies, snack on popcorn and play with your Barbies?" How bad could that possibly be, he wondered as she nodded her head, eagerly.

"Uh-huh."

"I suppose that would depend on who you'd wish to invite," he informed her, so that later he could point out his brilliance to Laura: A small sleepover party in order to avoid this horror? It as a no-brainer in his eyes.

"Mikayla, Emily, Emma, Dominique and Lucy," Livvie rattled off. Sophie leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"And Daniella," she added. He did the quick calculations. Six girls. How bad could it be, especially when compared to… he looked around… _this._

"A sleep over on Friday evening. Deal," he agreed, holding out his hand with a formality that made both girls giggle.

"Deal." She shook his hand, then giggled with Sophie again.

"We've never had a sleepover," Sophie enthused.

"This is my bestest birthday ever," Livvie pronounced, as Remington got to his feet. "A puppy, a Chuck E. Cheese party _and_ a sleepover."

"I never said you can have a puppy," he reminded, as he tried to herd the crew of three back toward the doors. "As your mother pointed out—" His brain clicked on the second thing she'd said and he bent down to look her in the eye. "A stór, didn't we just agree you'd be having a sleepover?" She nodded her head.

"Uh-huh."

"Then what's this talk of a Chuck E. Cheese party?" he wondered.

"You said I could have my party here."

"But we just agreed to a sleepover for your party," She shook her head.

"Uh-uh," she disagreed.

"A sleepover's not a party," Sophie giggled, as though he should know that.

"Sure, it is," he disagreed.

"Uh-uh. A sleepover's a sleepover," Livvie corrected.

"A slumber party is a party," Sophie clarified.

"What's the difference?" he asked both confused and curious.

"A slumber party has balloons, cake and ice cream, and presents," Sophie offered.

"And goodie bags," Olivia added. Sophie nodded her head in agreement.

"Then we'll make it a slumber party," he grinned, standing up straight again.

"No," Livvie shrugged away the offer. "I want my party here."

Drawing hand over his face, he held it splayed over his mouth as his eyes wandered the large space, wondering what in the bloody hell had just happened. Had his six-year-old just put one over on him or had he somehow done this to himself? He almost preferred to think it was the former. He looked down into her large, crystal blue eyes that shone with absolute faith that her Da wouldn't let her down… _Bloody hell._

He stepped up to the counter and spoke to the pimple-faced teenage boy manning the register.

"I'd like to reserve a room for a party," he leaned forward and looked at the kid's badge, "Evan." The kid bent over, then standing, dropped the appointment book on the counter.

"Day?" Evan inquired.

"Two weeks from today." Remington did a double take when a mouse taller than him pranced past.

"Our party rooms rent for twenty-five bucks an hour, hour minimum," Evan recited as he thumbed to two Saturday's in the future. "The rooms are booked solid for eleven, noon and one. I have one room available at two, three rooms at three and four, one at five and six is booked solid. We don't do parties after six. What time you want?"

"Uh, two I think." Evan shook his head.

"How many people?" The question caught Remington off-guard. He had no idea.

"Livvie, how many friends are we inviting to your party?" Livvie lifted and dropped her shoulders.

"I dunno. Mommy helps me think of everyone." Well, that was of no help.

In the end, he'd settled on the one room at two after Evan had informed him the room would hold twenty-four. If Livvie had more friends than that, she'd just have to trim the fat, as the saying goes.

At least the task was done, as unpleasant as it was. Putting the Explorer into gear, he kept his eyes peeled on the side view mirror, waiting for an opening in traffic.

"Home, then, eh?" he commented to the children. "We'll whip up a light lunch, then I hear tell Thea Lina wishes to take you down to the beach to spend some time with you three ruffians."

"Will Thea Lina make sandcaskles with me?" Holt asked.

"She always does," Remington assured.

"Mommy said we had to get tights," Sophie worried. He flashed her a smile in the rear view mirror.

"We already bought your tights, a thaisce, remember?" They'd had a busy morning but it seemed odd to him that she'd forget that.

"Uh-uh. We bought dance tights," Sophie countered.

"We need school tights," Livvie offered, helpfully.

"The warm ones and the regular ones," Sophie added.

"In blue and white," Livvie elaborated.

"Because Mommy says it will be cold soon," Sophie finished off. He was left slack-jawed when they'd finished their recitation.

"Then why didn't you say anything when were purchasing dance tights?" Sophie shrugged.

"We almost needed them, too."

With a heavy sigh, Remington flipped on the turn signal and prepared to double back to the uniform store.


	35. Chapter 31: The Hammock

Chapter 31: The Hammock

Laura dialed a number on the portable phone then with resolve hit the call button. Sometime last night as she'd gone through the photo album of her childhood, she'd decided she couldn't put off telling her mother any longer. Abigail would already be put out that she hadn't been told sooner, but if she were to discover the news on her own? Well, Laura would hear about it for the rest of her days… and frequently.

"Good Afternoon," Abigail chirped into the phone on the other side of the line, her good mood evident in just her tone.

"Mother, it's Laura," she greeted. "How are you?"

"I'm wonderful, dear. Thank you for asking. How are Remington and the children?" Laura lifted and dropped a hand in silent frustration. Why should she expect any different? Abigail never inquired after her – was it intentional or was she just an oversight, as she'd felt most of her life when it came to her mother?

"Everyone's fine," she assured. "Out running Saturday morning errands and reserving a space for Livvie's birthday party."

"That's nice. Laura, dear, you know how I enjoy hearing from you, but right now's not a very good time. Phillip will be along to pick me up any minute."

"Phillip?"

"An oral surgeon I've been seeing for a while now." What was it with her mother and Frances and dentists? "He's a wonderful man and we do so enjoy the time we spend together. That reminds me: I won't be coming for Thanksgiving this year. Phillip and I are taking a week in Hawaii."

"Does Frances know about Phillip?"

"You know, I can't say for certain if I mentioned him or not, although I'm not in the habit of discussing my beaus with my daughters." Laura lifted her eyes heavenward. No, she just expected her daughters to put the pieces back together when things fell apart.

* * *

 _ **"Dr. Harvey Fennerman."**_

 _ **"A doctor? That's wonderful!"**_

 _ **"Actually, he's a dentist. Children's orthodontia. Such meaningful work, straightening all those crooked little teeth. We met at a seminar on plaque - you know how I like to keep current. We saw a great deal of each other. I, uh, I don't want to shock you, dear, but Harvey and I were planning a weekend together. Oh, I felt so daring. I bought a whole new wardrobe in Harvey's favorite color. And then he, uh, made his… his proposal. He felt it was wrong of us to go off together if we didn't-"**_

 _ **"Get married? He proposed marriage? He didn't propose marriage. Mother, I'm on the edge of my seat here. What in God's name did Harvey Fennerman propose?!"**_

 _ **"That he bring his wife along. That the three of us get to know one another."**_

* * *

"Laura, the time," Abigail reminded in the silence.

"I'm sorry, Mother. This won't take long, but I feel I should warn you, the news may be upsetting."

"Is it one of the children?" Laura frowned.

"No, as I've already said, the children are fine. I just don't quite know how to say this, Mother," she hesitated.

"You know what I always say, Laura: It's best just to rip the Bandaid right off." Laura snorted in disbelief. Those were words were _never_ said by Abigail Holt. But if that's what she wanted…

"A couple of weeks ago, the children and I were on the beach when Father just, well, showed up."

"Jack?" Abigail verified. For some reason she didn't even attempt to define, the question annoyed Laura.

"So far as I know I only have the one father, Mother," she replied, tersely.

"There's no need for the tone, Laura," Abigail reprimanded.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Laura replied automatically. "My point is… I mean, I just thought you should know… he's here." She sighed. At thirty-eight years of age, her mother could still make her feel like a child freshly reprimanded.

"Well, that's nice, dear. Now, I really should be going. Phillip—"

"That's it?!" Laura squeaked. You can't be serious. If Abigail Holt couldn't be counted on for anything else, that she would overreact was guaranteed. _That's it?_ Laura may as well have told her the weather in LA was expected to be clear and sunny that day. "That's it?!" she repeated. "We're speaking of my father, the man who abandoned you, his family not… not… not the Fuller Brush salesman!"

"Well, if I'd known you wanted me to be upset, I'm sure I could have come up with a little something with proper warning," Abigail replied, far too nonchalantly for her daughter's taste, "But I came to terms with your father leaving a long time ago. If I'm to be completely honest, it may have taken me a little while to admit it, but your father leaving was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"What?!" Laura shrieked, unable to believe her ears. Abigail glanced in the direction of her foyer, then sighed heavily. Her youngest daughter had a knack for calling at the most inconvenient of times.

"Laura, you have to understand, girls of my generation were expected to marry well, keep a nice home and raise our children. I practically went directly from my father's house to my husband's. I had no idea how we'd pay the bills and I had never actually paid a bill or even kept a checking account – those responsibilities were first my father's and then my husband's. I'd never had a job and had never had instruction in anything other than what you'd expect you'd need as a wife and mother. I was terrified and on top of everything else, there was the humiliation. Divorce just wasn't the thing then. I wasn't sure how I'd ever hold my head high again."

"I'm sorry you went through that, Mother…"

"There's no need to be. Look at me, now," Abigail declared, smiling proudly. "I'm an independent woman. I have my clubs and charities. I've traveled _anywhere_ I've ever dreamed of going. I've had my share of romances… and whirlwind affairs with men—"

"Mother!" Laura shrieked again, this time in horror. Surely her mother had not not just made reference to her _sex_ life. _No-no-no-no-no_!

"Well, whether you want to hear it or not, it's true, dear and I won't apologize for it," Abigail warned. "My point is that if your father hadn't left, we'd still be wasting what precious time we have left being trapped in a miserable marriage, instead of preparing to go to Hawaii with my beau and him doing whatever it is he's doing." Laura was rendered speechless, a thousand thoughts running through her mind and not able to articulate a one of them. "Laura, the time, dear…" Abigail prodded.

"I'll let you go. Goodbye, Mother. Enjoy your date."

"I will. Give the children a kiss from Grandma and tell Remington I send my love. Goodbye, dear."

Laura hung up the phone and dropped her face into her hands.

What in God's name had just happened?

* * *

Remington squelched a groan as he positioned himself in the hammock and waited as Laura carefully joined him.

Much to his surprise – and vast relief – he'd returned home not only Laura, but his father and Catherine as well. True to his word, Thomas had filled Catherine in on Sophie's reaction to Tank and Dozer's reappearance in her life and her desire to see her Grans. All else forgotten, Sophie had eagerly curled up against Catherine on the sofa, soaking up all the affection showered upon her, while Holt and Livvie stormed the kitchen in search of Thomas.

In another merciful act, lunch had already been prepared – BLT's accompanied by chilled fruit – and was ready to put on the table the moment the groceries had been stored in their places. Lina returned to the house right before everyone sat down for the meal, already wearing her bathing suit with a sarong slung around her hips. The nature of the meal, rather than by plan, was a speedy one, and before long Lina and Catherine were urging the children upstairs to put on their swim suits.

"Grans has brought you goodies," Catherine announced as the ascended the stairs, "They await you on the deck."

The news had been greeted with cheers and the children had changed their clothing in record time. More cheers arose when Zach – one of the children's favorite detectives - arrived with the announcement he was craving a bit of time in the sun… and some 'sandcaskle' building. Working in concert with one another, mere minutes after everyone had piled out of the terrace doors then escaped to the white sand beach, Remington had changed into a pair of shorts and t-shirt, and now was contentedly ensconced in the hammock with his lovely wife.

"Did you remember to stop at Chuck E. Cheese?" she asked quietly, shifting against him until she found that perfect resting place beneath his shoulder for her head. He puffed his disgust.

"It's becoming more and more apparent our first born is like her mother in ways other than just temperament." The remark earned an unseen smirk.

"Oh, how is that?"

"She seems to have a fondness for establishments that lack ambiance, cleanliness and edible food." She patted his chest, placatingly.

"She's only six, Mr. Steele."

"Even at the tender age of six years, I would have been appalled by giant mice strolling about in a place where food is served, Laura!" The image made her titter.

"So when's the big event?" she wondered.

"I reserved a room from two-to-three two weeks from today." She frowned.

"For only one hour?" He lifted his head and looked down at her.

"That is how they rent the room: By the hour." Amused, he pursed his lips. "Another thing the place has in common with some of the dives I've known."

"I've seen some of your dates, an hour seems about right." He barked a horrified laugh.

"Precisely whose character are you casting aspersions upon? Mine or theirs?" The only response he received was another pat on his chest.

"You need at least two hours: Time for the children to arrive, to play, to eat their pizza, play again and then cake and presents," she ticked of the elements on her fingers.

"Couldn't you have shared this bit of information with me _before_ I'd made the reservations?" he groused.

"Frankly, it didn't cross my mind" she replied honestly… The idea that maybe she _should_ tell him how long to reserve a room hadn't occurred to her. He wanted control, far be it from her to interject her thoughts or opinion… before necessary.

He dislodged his arm from beneath her, left the hammock and went inside. When he came back outside, he had the portable phone held to his ear.

"Evan, my good man, Remington Steele here… It seems I'll be needing to reserve that room an additional hour… Yes, from two-to-four… The same card will be fine… Okay… Bye—"

"Remington, wait—

"Bye now." Her timing couldn't have been more perfect, even if she did say so herself. Just as the phone beeped indicating he'd ended the call, he looked at her in question.

"I was just going to ask how many people a room holds, that's all," she waved a hand as though brushing aside the thought, unconcerned, then slung an arm over her eyes to block the sun. Setting the phone on the terrace floor, he eased himself back into the hammock, and she squirmed until she found that comfortable spot.

"Twenty-four," he murmured after several minutes of silence had passed as they enjoyed the feeing of the sun kissing their skin and the light breeze whispering over them like a gentle caress.

"Twenty-four?" she frowned. Her mind had wandered to what the children were doing.

"The room holds twenty-four," he yawned…

Then nearly toppled out of the hammock when she shot up. Seeing him struggle for balance, she turned her head to hide her small smile.

"Bloody hell, Laura," he complained, once he was steady in the sling again, "One of these days you're going to kill me when you do things such as that."

"Twenty-four—"

"Yes, yes," he confirmed.

"Let me finish," she scowled. "Twenty-four is the number of seats we need just for our family and friends… and that's not even counting the five of us. How many friends is Livvie inviting?"

"Well, the six coming to her sleepover, naturally, although I imagine there will be another one or two she'll wish to add." She held silent and still for long enough that he peeked his eyes open and found her peering at him as though he'd sprouted a second head.

"Her… _what?_ " This one had come from so far afield that she hadn't seen it coming. His eyes narrowed, and he wet his lips nervously, fairly certain he'd somehow stepped into it… whatever 'it' was.

"Her sleepover?" he speculated.

"The girls aren't old enough to have a sleepover," she said with an exasperated tone that suggested he should have known as much. Yep, he'd stepped in it. But, today was one of the rare occasions when he had an unarguable reply.

"I'm sorry, but didn't you say this was my little soiree to plan as I wished?" She parted her lips to deliver a scorching lecture on why he couldn't plan events such as a sleepover without her… then clamped them shut. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Throwing up her hands, she pretended to concede.

"You're right," she feigned a resigned tone, "I promised you could handle the party without any interference from me…" She lay back down on the hammock, facing him this time. "So, she's inviting six girls to the sleepover. Did she tell you who?" He searched his memory.

"Lucy and Mikayla" he was familiar enough with them. "Emma and Emily." He paused for a couple of seconds, then nodded. "Ah, Daniella and Dominique." She held up her hands in a gesture indicating peace.

"A piece of friendly advice?" He shrugged a shoulder.

"Why not?"

"If Livvie is inviting Emily, then she'll have to invite Emma as well."

"Why's that?" he asked quickly, truly curious.

"Emma's not only Emily's twin sister, but she's Daniella's bestest best friend," she advised.

" _Bestest_ best friend? Bit redundant, isn't it?" he mused.

"Nevertheless, if Emma's not invited to the sleepover she'll be upset which will upset Daniella since Emma is her bestest best friend. And if Daniella's upset, Livvie will be upset because her best friend is upset, which, of course means Sophie will be upset because—" He held up a hand to stop her.

"I get the picture," he sighed. "Now, would you mind explaining to me what a bestest best friend is?" She held up her hands and dropped them with a shrug of her shoulders.

"From what I can tell, a best friend is what you and I would refer to as a friend, and bestest best friends would have been best friend for us." She shrugged again. She'd stopped trying to figure out where the girls came up with these things – she was busy enough just trying to keep up with them.

"So as I was saying, I imagine Livvie will wish to invite the seven girls from the sleepover on Friday night. I doubt she'll—"

"Friday night?" Laura interrupted to verify.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Mikayla can't spend the night on Friday night. She has Shabbat Shacharit on Saturday morning," she informed him. Her annoyance that he'd planned a sleepover neither the girls nor they were at all prepared for began to fade as an idea began to formulate. Her husband had a habit of being his own worst enemy, and it clicked that he'd just bumbled into another lesson, all of his own making.

"Then I guess we're back to six," he concluded in error.

"Dominique is Mikayla's bestest best friend. If Mikayla doesn't come, Dominique will be upset—"

"Good Lord, it's more complicated than planning a dinner party for a passel of dignitaries," he lamented with little gusto, and closed his eyes.

"Even so, the sleepover will have to be on Saturday night, after Livvie's party." Those eyes flew back open.

"Saturday night? But, Laura," he whined now, "We've been looking forward to the ballet for well over a month and it's been nearly that long since we've been out alone."

"Are you going to tell Livvie she can't have the sleepover you promised?" she challenged, then pressed a hand to her chest, "Because I'm certainly not." He crossed his arms.

"No," he pouted. "But the ballet…"

"There will be other ballets, Mr. Steele," she dismissed, breezily. "In the meantime, you're a room short for her party," she reminded.

He blew out a breath, then cautiously leaned over the side of the hammock to retrieve the portable phone. Lying back, he hit redial.

"Evan, my good man, Remington Steele here again… Mmm, yes, 'long time no hear'… It looks like we'll require a second room… Not available?... At three?... It doesn't seem we have a choice… Yes, same card… Much appreciated… Bye bye now." He disconnected the all, then dropped the phone on the hammock next to him. "Slight change," he informed Laura. "There wasn't a second room available at two. We've two rooms from three to five." He sat up and held out a hand. "Now, what are you doing over there? Hmmmm?" With a smile, she took his hand and turned around. Once she was settled with her head on his shoulder, she walked her fingers over his chest.

"When I am expecting this surprise of yours?" Closing his eyes, he slung his free arm over them.

"Between four and five. We've plenty of time to catch a few winks." He shifted beneath her, getting more comfortable.

She absently traced figures on his chest, as she stared over the terrace towards the water beyond. An afternoon nap in the hammock had sounded heavily when he'd mentioned it earlier in the day, but now where the body was willing, the mind was not. She wasn't a woman who was comfortable with loose ends, and in the last few weeks, those loose ends had been stacking up, beginning with her father and ending – at least as of this moment – with Roselli's escape.

Her eyes traveled to the approximate location of where the children would be playing on the beach. If she were honest, she'd been unprepared for Sophie's sudden regression in the wake of Tank and Dozer reappearing in her life. Laura had come to believe the only memories Sophie still had of the days before she'd become their daughter were happy, if hazy, recollections of Clarissa. They – she and Remington – had done their best to encourage Sophie to speak of, to ask questions, about her mother whenever she wished. The first year with the Steele's, Sophie had spoken fairly frequently of Clarissa, and was oft found studying her mother's picture that sat next to the bed in her room. In the second year, Sophie had spoken less of her, and this last, Clarissa's picture had moved to her dresser, a picture of her new family taking the spot on her nightstand. To discover her memories of Castoro hadn't been washed away by time but were had merely been buried until some event conspired to set them free?

Well, that broke Laura's heart. She and Remington dedicated themselves to creating a lifetime of happy memories for their children. Yes, the specter that haunted Sophie had preceded her time with them, but it still stung to know that their efforts had not permanently banished from Sophie's mind the time when Gabriel Castoro ruled her life with an iron fist. She wanted more for Sophie than to carry with her childhood demons like Remington did.

"Turn off that magnificent mind, Laura," Remington murmured, eyes still closed and covered.

"I'm trying. I'm trying." With purpose, she drew in a deep breath and released it slowly in an effort to relax…

And promptly gave up.

"I called Mother this morning and told her." That earned a lift of his arm, and pair of eyes considering her from beneath his lashes. "She believes he did them both a favor by leaving." Sleep went by the wayside, at least for now. Easing his arm from beneath her head, he shimmied over to lay on his side facing her.

"What an odd notion," he observed, forthrightly.

"According to Mother, had he not left, she'd have seen to it that they were still living in misery today." She snorted a wry laugh. "Instead she's independent, has traveled the world and has had more than her share of lovers." The last sent him into a fit of coughing.

"She _said_ that?" he asked in disbelief.

"I'm not sure which is the more horrifying: That I know my mother is having sex – try getting that image out of your mind—"

"Lau-ra, please—" He held up his hand.

"Or that she may have more notches on her bedpost than I do mine." Remington scrunched his face and growled his disgust.

"Lau-ra!" he complained again. "There are certain things a man does not wish to know and top amongst those things is anything about his mother-in-law's affairs."

"How do you think I feel? She's _my_ mother." She puffed out a breath. "Frankly, I'm angry… I'm… I'm… offended. I thought about what she said and she was right." She flopped to her back, making the hammock swing precariously and pressed a palm against her forehead. "Sure, she fell apart at first. But she wasn't wrong today. She moved on. She sold the house, moved to Connecticut, became involved in her clubs and charities and traveled. Hell, ten years after he left she's having an affair with a married man and planning trips with him, while I'm… while I'm…" She blew out a frustrated breath. "Even now a part of me is just waiting for it – one year, four years, eight years, twelve. When does it stop? When Sophie turns sixteen, or Livvie? Holt? Twenty-two-years later and I still can't erase it, but she's grateful?" She crossed her arms and averted her face from him, a bit embarrassed over the outburst. He tucked a strand of hair behind her hair.

"One person's—" He frowned when the portable phone at his back began to ring. The blaring of the phone had long played interference during intimate moments and crucial conversations. Lips thinned with irritation, he fumbled around behind him, located the phone, then stabbed at the talk button.

"Steele, here."

"Steele, it's Michaels. Is Laura around?..."


	36. Chapter 32: Time

Chapter 32: Time

Remington sat in Laura's desk chair with his elbow pressed against the armrest and his chin braced on his fist. As he'd predicted, the ringing of the phone had heralded the end of any hope catching a few winks with his wife. Laura had been pacing the floor, mulling aloud the possible implications of the phone call for the several minutes that had passed while waiting for the arrival of emails Murphy had promised to send as soon as he hung up the phone.

The Colonel, it seemed, had been on a mission to uncover everything there was to know about his son – a mission that had begun around the time Laura and Remington had paid him a visit some eight years previously. And the man, from what Murphy had shared, had been thorough – very thorough – befitting of a man who'd risen high within the ranks of the United States Army. Presumably using his decades of connections, the Colonel had obtained unredacted files of Roselli's brief, if deadly, career in the Army, then the MI5 and INS. The Colonel had meticulously traced his son's movement from 1971 until his imprisonment in Greece in 1987, leaving no rock unturned: He'd interviewed men who had served with Roselli at each base he'd been stationed, as well as agents he'd worked, partnered with and had led during the course of his work as spy and immigration official. And the Colonel hadn't stopped there – not by a long shot. According to Murph the Colonel had collected unsolved missing person and murder cases spanning the time Roselli had spent in cities and countries worldwide; he'd gathered together a list of Roselli's known haunts in those same places; any tangible property owned; records of where he'd resided during his travels; a list of the extensive aliases he'd used; and, a thorough account of assets Roselli had stashed should he need to go underground quick.

If Murphy's findings weren't exaggerated – which was unlikely given they were speaking of the salt-of-the-earth Michaels – then the Colonel had done the very thorough groundwork that only the night before she'd chiding herself for not doing when Remington and she were on the trail of the 'why' Roselli had targeted them.

Crossing the office to a cabinet, Laura pulled out a new ream of printer paper and set it next to the new ink jet printer Remington had come home with a couple of months earlier.

" _What_ is your problem?" she demanded to know, growing irritated by his unhidden sulk. "If anything, I'd think you'd be thrilled!" Thrilled that an eagerly anticipated afternoon had been annihilated by, in a roundabout manner, Roselli? Hardly.

"Has it occurred to you that much as I'd like to see the bugger caught and sequestered safely behind bars, I might wish even more for a bit of alone time with you?" he suggested, crossing his arms, clearly vexed. "When was the last time you and I spent time with one another? Hmmmm?" Her brows knitted together, miffed by the charge.

"I seem to recall an interlude just this morning or was that with another man whom I just imagined to be you?" It was a cheap shot and she knew it, but short on sleep and with a plate brimming over, the last thing she was in the mood for was a grown man in a full pout because he was missing an afternoon nap. She flinched when his palm crashed down on the desk top and he surged to his feet, his face a mask of fury and insult.

"Another—" he sputtered, then pointed an accusatory finger at her. "I'm going to do my best to forget you said that," he seethed. "I'm not speaking about sex, Laura. I'm speaking about you and I, nurturing our personal relationship, catching up, simply spending a bit of quality time together! When was the last time we carved out more than a few minutes before we sleep or in the car while working a case? Eh? How long's it been, Laura, or have you even taken notice?"

"It's been a couple of weeks. So what?!" She threw her hands out, emphasizing her point. "That's not a reflection of us, but fallout from all that's going on around us!"

"Going on six weeks, Laura! Six!" he shouted. Chest rising and falling rapidly, he forced himself to lower his voice. "I expected you to shut me out a bit while you tried to work things through, understood it even, for whether or not I care for this particular habit of yours, I long ago accepted it as part of who you are. But when I am reduced to negotiating a bit of time alone with my wife and once again find myself tossed to the curb—"

"For God's sake, Remington, it was a nap not—"

"It's not the nap, Laura!" he insisted. "I needed a bit of time with you – Not just wanted, but needed. I have sat back patiently for weeks now, giving you the time and space you need to work through things, taking care not to ask questions or to put any further pressure upon you. But the one time – _the one time –_ I dare to seek you out for a bit normalcy so that I might reassure myself all is fine and well and I find, once again, I am nowhere on your list of priorities!"

Her lips parted to contest the charges but she swiftly closed them and shifted on her feet uncomfortably. He wasn't wrong. She might not particularly care for the manner he chose to deliver the message, but it didn't make the content ring any less true. He'd stepped back and allowed her to work through her father's reemergence on her own, while still being there for her when she needed him, in whatever form that need might take – even if that meant taking herself away from him, to spend time with her thoughts, which she'd frequently done over the weeks. Roselli's escape had certainly caused more complications, demanding even more of her attention. Sophie's regression due directly to the measures they'd put into play for the children's safety was aiding in their current state of sleep deprivation, but also meant they'd been sharing a very crowded bed these last nights. Their case load had been heavier than normal the last two months and on top of that, she'd made the decision to expand the Agency again in the midst of it all.

And thus far, he hadn't even blinked.

Unknowingly, she scrunched her face, as guilt washed over her. She'd been taking him for granted and had missed a couple of very important clues along the way. Even sleep deprived, Remington was rarely short of temper, yet twice now in as many days, he'd put on a spectacular display of it. She'd quickly written the first off to his worry over Roselli's escape, and even now she understood that played a part. But much as he'd realized long ago that she required space to work things out, she'd recognized the ground under his feet tended to shift and sway when deprived of his connection to her. She'd missed another very large clue this morning, when he'd 'negotiated' that time with her: He needed her steadying presence so his feet could find firm ground again. He had, as he'd accused, fallen to the bottom of her priority list, intentionally so or not.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized, holding up a hand and sinking back down into the desk chair wearily. She blinked, wondering how long she'd been lost in thought to elicit an apology.

"You're right," she lifted and dropped her hands in concession. "You've made it very easy on me these last weeks to focus on everything going on around us, to the exclusion of yourself." She leaned across the desk and pressed the power button to the monitor.

"What are you doing?" he asked before he could give the question much thought. He still wasn't certain there wasn't a 'but' coming that would be shortly followed by a blistering lecture.

"By my calculations, we still have an hour-and-a-half, maybe two, if we're lucky," she said with a jaunty lift of her brow and an outstretched hand, "Although I'd like to alter the plan slightly." Standing, he took her hand. "You, me, the sofa and _Casablanca_ on the television," she suggested. He couldn't have been more pleased. Stopping, he tugged her around and gathered her in his arms.

"Thank you," he murmured dropping a kiss on the top of her head. She pressed her lips against his neck, then wrapped her arms around it.

"I may have a lot on my mind, but it doesn't mean I don't miss our time together, too." He closed his eyes and let those words sink in…

* * *

Remington frowned and dragged open his eyes when, in his sleep, he recognized a heavy hand lying against his shoulder. He found himself looking up at his father.

"Son, the children have eaten and are upstairs preparing for this evening's festivities," Thomas informed him quietly, "I've plates waiting on Laura and yourself. You've little more than a half hour before you need to leave."

"Th—" Remington cleared his throat and tried again. "Thank you," he replied, his hand already moving towards Laura's shoulder to wake her. He looked down to find she'd turned her head and was blinking up at the ceiling trying to clear her head of the cobwebs brought by deep sleep. They rose to sitting positions in unison, him scrubbing his hands over his face. "Did we have a delivery, by chance."

"You did," Thomas confirmed. "Someone will be round on the morrow for you to sign the delivery slip, should everything suit your liking." Remington shoved to his feet, and held out a hand to Laura.

"Which first? Freshen up, the surprise or our meal?"

"Freshen up, meal, surprise," she ticked off, as she took his hand and stood.

They reemerged in the dining room dressed for the evening. Remington was dressed as a gangster, straight out of the Roaring Twenties, in his pinstriped suit with black dress shirt and white tie. He hadn't shaved that morning, and his whiskered face coupled with his slicked back hair and the black fedora he dropped on the coffee table completed the picture. Laura's eyes ran appreciatively over him as he held out her chair. _Yum_. She'd never been able to resist the man when he sported a day's beard growth. _If either of us can stay awake tonight, he may get lucky for the second time today_ , she mused.

Laura wore a red sheer silk chiffon and metallic gold lace dress over a lame based underslip. The dress with its plunging neckline and playful tiered, scalloped skirt that ended just above midthigh, was lavishly embellished with gold tone deco beadwork and micro-sequins. She'd rounded out the flapper outfit with a rhinestone headband that crossed over her forehead and was adorned on one side with a trio of red feathers clipped to the band with a rhinestone flower. The dress positively bordered on criminal, he decreed silently as he took his seat across from her. He'd spend half the night trying to keep his hands off her and the other half of the night staring down business associates who dared to admire her assets for too long a time.

They enjoyed a quick meal of Chicken Florentine, green salad and warmed French bread, before the children clattered down the stairs, chattering with anticipation over the upcoming party.

"Ah, a thaisce, a lovelier princess there never was," Remington complimented. Sophie wore a dress of sparkling pink tulle accessorized by a tall gold crown, and in her hand she held a long, gold wand topped with silver star.

"I'm not a princess, Da, remember?" Remington and Laura had both been present when the children had selected their costumes. "I'm Glinda the Good Witch."

"Ahhh, yes, _Wizard of Oz_. It had completely slipped my mind, but what a beautiful good witch you make."

"Good Lord, who let this bad witch in the house, and where is my other granddaughter?" Thomas joined in. Livvie and Sophie broke out it giggles.

"It's me, Granddad! It's me, Olivia!" she declared, dancing on her tiptoes. Thomas bent down, examining her closely. Garbed in a flowing black witches costume, black hat, and face slathered with green pancake makeup, a pair of bright blue eyes still shone through all the adornment.

"Why, so it is. You'll surely be scaring all the ghosts and goblins away this evening, looking as you do." His comment brought another round of laughter from her.

"What about me, Granddad?" Holt asked, leaning back to look up at his tall grandfather with hopeful eyes.

"Why, I do believe it's Michelangelo." Holt grinned wide at having been so quickly identified, while Remington did a double take. "You make a fine ninja turtle, my boy."

"How is that my father knows of these turtles, but I've still no idea exactly what they are?" Remington wondered aloud.

"Oh, my grandson and I have been known to enjoy and episode or two of _The Teenage Mutant Turtles_ together when Catherine and I swoop in and relieve Mia of her duties for an afternoon." The idea amused Remington and a crooked smile lit his face.

"I imagine _The Daily Mail_ would have a field day, were they to discover Marquess Westmoreland, in line for the British throne, enjoys an afternoon watching cartoons?" he mused aloud.

"Mommy?" Holt called to Laura, in a suddenly miserable sounding voice. "I have to go." _Badly,_ Laura quickly assessed, given the way her young son was squeezing his legs together. In two long strides, she reached him and lifted him up, carrying him towards the downstairs bathroom.

"Holt, did I not just inquire if you needed to use the loo?" Lina scolded lightly. Holt had gone so far as to cross his heart that he didn't have to go before she'd wiggled then tied him into the turtle costume.

"I didn't have to go, then," he proclaimed his innocence over Laura's shoulder before they disappeared down the hallway.

In gesture learned from her sister-in-law, Lina rolled her eyes heavenward and held out her hands to her sides, as though asking the heavens for an answer to her question. Honestly, with a baker's dozen plus one of nieces and nephews, it never failed that someone would have to use the loo only minutes after declaring they had no need. Shops all over Oia had long grown used to her dashing through the store with a child, no longer even bothering to ask if they might use the private facilities, it had become so common.

"Alright, my little witches," he paused for another round of tittering, "Do you have everything you need? Your book of spells? Your toads?"

"Ewwwwwwwwww," the girls said in unison.

"We don't like toads," Sophie informed her father.

"They're slimy," Olivia explained, her nose crinkled with distaste.

"And we don't want warts!" Sophie emphasized.

"Oh, no!" Livvie cried out in dismay. "I forgot my broom." Spinning on her heel, she began to run towards the stairs.

"I have it right here, my darling girl," Catherine called, halting Livvie in her tracks at the base of the stairs. She ran back across the room to the sofa where her grandmother held out the straw broom.

"No running in the house, Olivia Elena," Laura admonished as she returned to the room. Livvie crinkled her nose. When Mommy used two of her names, it was a warning that they'd spoken about a rule before, and the next time there would be a stern lecture. She sighed heavily. She didn't like lectures. You had to sit still and pay attention, and that was so hard – to stay still and pay attention _all that time._ Harder than remembering not to run in the house when you forgot something, she judged.

"Yes, Mommy. Sorry, Mommy," Livvie replied obediently.

"Our Ninja Turtle is ready to go. Girls?"

Livvie took off for the front hallway in a sprint…

"O-liv—"

And skidded to a halt before her mother could utter her full name.

"Sorry, Mommy," she apologized, making it a point to walk slowly towards the front door. By time she turned the corner into the hallway, she couldn't contain her joy a second longer, and she ran as fast as she could to the front door… Where she sighed heavily and turned to look in the direction of the family room. Waiting for others to catch up was hard, too.

"We'll walk out with you," Catherine announced to Laura and Remington, "Fred should be along any minute, if he's not already waiting on us."

"I'll help the children into the car with their costumes," Lina volunteered.

It didn't occur to Laura this behavior was odd – the three adults escorting them from their own home – until the front door swung open and she saw what had been the incentive for this unprecedented behavior.

She stared ahead, dumbfounded.

"What's the occasion?" she wondered aloud, as she stepped onto the driveway and began circling the bright red Jeep Wrangler soft top with black trim and tan leather interior. He tugged at an ear.

"I realized a couple days ago we'd no need for the Explorers any longer, given the girls have outgrown their car seats, and Holt uses the much smaller variety now. I thought perhaps now would be a good time to restore what was lost to you." Her Jeep had been totaled when they'd been run off the road on Gabriel Castoro's orders. Pregnant with Holt and having already decided they wished Sophie to be a permanent part of their family, it had been necessary to replace the Jeep with a vehicle that could hold three car seats.

"How very practical of you," she drawled. With a grin, he stepped closer.

"Failed to dazzle you with romance, hmmm?" He scratched his chin and considered. "It's an anniversary gift, of sorts, then." Lifting herself into the driver's seat, she inspected the dashboard. All the bells and whistles were there, or course, right down to the custom Pioneer stereo system.

"What anniversary is that? We've already celebrated the anniversary of you appearing in my life," she reminded.

"Well, ummmm," he quickly sorted through the options offered up by their history, "Of the first time we kissed, of course," he grinned with a waggle of his brows. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she rolled her eyes as she lowered herself to the ground. A little sleep, a little connection and his mood had bettered exponentially, she noted.

"It must have been some kiss," Lina commented, climbing up into the Jeep to look around. Laura laughed and wagged her finger at her sister-in-law.

"Don't encourage him," she scolded, playfully. "Xenos has no more idea of when we kissed the first time than I do." She turned her attention back to her husband.

"Dare I ask about this?" She drew a finger over the glossy black paint on the trunk of a second vehicle.

"Laura, please," he grimaced, "The paint job." He whipped the handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed off the streak left in the wake of her finger. "This little beauty is a classic: A 1968 Shelby GT350 in mint condition." He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back to admire the car. "Less than eleven hundred were ever produced and only six of those were finished with raven black paint and a black interior. She has been in the hands of a single owner, who treated her better than he did his own children – at least according to the children, who sold it to me for a song."

"I'm afraid to ask what song that might be: The Beatles's _Her Majesty_ or Iron Butterfly's _In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,_ " she mused aloud. "I wasn't aware it was tradition to buy yourself an 'anniversary present'."

"I like to think of it more as a reward for a job well-done," he informed her, with a cheeky grin on his face.

"And what job might that be?" she laughed. He ducked his head down to speak next to her ear.

"For persevering until I won the right to kiss you anytime I like." Yes, his mood was infinitely better, his charm working full-force.

"Nice try," she retorted, drily with a lift of her brows. "Would you like to try again?"

"This car was my first true love," he shrugged. "Unlike most lads, I didn't have pinup posters of Raquel Welch or Sharon Tate pinned to my walls at Daniel's place, wherever that might be from day-to-day. On my wall there was a picture of this car that I'd torn from a magazine and I vowed one day it would be mine." She walked around the car, admiring it.

"So, you'd never seen or driven one?" she wondered.

"Not once," he confirmed. "But how could one not appreciate the power hinted at by its sleek lines and sharp angles?" A smile played over her lips. Much like the way he dressed, spoke and the movies he preferred, the man was drawn to cars of another time.

"And the Explorers?" she wondered as she opened a door and slid into the driver seat to look around.

"With the upcoming expansion I thought we'd retitle one to the Agency for use," he shared. Her keen mind focused on what he hadn't said.

"And the other?" she prompted. He tugged at that ear again.

"I thought it might be put to better use elsewhere?" he suggested. Her eyes narrowed and she tipped her head slightly to the side.

"And where might that elsewhere be?" He cleared his throat and looked around for Lina, who was still seated in the Jeep, fiddling with the stereo.

"Uh, Lina. Would you happen to know if Selena possesses a driver's license?" he called. The question drew her from the Jeep, curiosity lighting her eyes.

"She does. We took a photocopy according to our procedures." He nodded, while stroking his chin.

"Yet, she had no vehicle at her home," he observed. Lina nodded, while Laura watched the interchange with interest.

"Her scoundrel of a husband sold it shortly before their last child was born," she confirmed, disgust painting her words. "He needed the money for… other things, his family bedamned," she provided, her eyes flashing with her irritation at the man's selfishness.

"I see," he replied thoughtfully, glancing to Laura. She nodded her head with approval. For all his shortcomings, the man was more than generous when his path crossed with someone in need of a hand up to find a better perch in life. "Whose?" he inquired simply.

"Yours, I think. It has considerably less miles on it than mine," she advised.

"If you and Jacoby would be so kind as to deliver my SUV to Selena when he returns on Tuesday, it would be most appreciated." He mimicked Lina's sudden frown. "What? What is it?"

"This, she will not accept. Selena is a proud woman. It is one thing to accept a home where your children will be safe and can flourish, quite another to accept something she has done without for so long," she assessed.

"Is that all? Then tell her it is a reward for the information that led to the recovery of the money stolen from CashNow," he suggested, smoothly. "Surely she can't refuse something she earned." Lina's frown deepened while she considered the idea. Several moments passed before she nodded once and her face brightened.

"This I believe she will accept," she assessed with some confidence. Pressing up on her tiptoes, she bussed him on the cheek. "It is times like these when I am most proud to call you my brother," she complimented. He barked a laugh.

"Inferring there are times you are not so proud?" he teased. Lina merely sniffed, flashed him a sly smile before walking over to Laura to give her a hug of appreciation. Clapping his hands, he rubbed them together as he faced the children, who were still uncertain why these two strange vehicles were parked in their driveway. "Children, which is it to be this evening?" he addressed the trio. "The… Jeep," he indicated with a nod of his hair, inserting a snobbish disapproval into his voice, "Or this magnificent piece of machinery," he extended his arm to towards the car with a wide smile, hoping to sway his offspring. Livvie looked up at him with rounded eyes.

"They're ours?" she wondered.

"Well, your Mother's and mine, at least," he confirmed. "So which is to be, eh?" So confident was he in their choice that he began moving towards the driver's door of the GT350, while the girls put their heads together and whispered between them.

"I wanna go in the car," Holt proclaimed, then looked up at his father with eager eyes. "Can we go fast?" Remington smiled, then quickly corrected when he saw Laura's disapproving frown. It was one thing to push a car to its limits when it was just the two of them, but not when the children were in the vehicle. "We'll take the highway. That should be fast enough, hmmm?"

"Livvie and me like the Jeep," Sophie declared.

"Livvie and I," Laura corrected, then flashed a pair of dimples at Remington. "That's three-to-two. Looks like I'm driving." He in turn lifted a singular brow at the girls.

"The three of us," he pointed a finger at the Livvie and Sophie, "Are you going have to have a little talk about the girls always ganging up against the boys," he teased, drawing a pair of giggles from the girls, while Laura clipped across the driveway to retrieve Holt's car seat from her SUV.

"The Jeep is red," Sophie announced the obvious, as Remington hefted her up and into the backseat. Livvie nodded her head in agreement.

"Red's prettier than black," Livvie pronounced, as he lifted her into the vehicle.

"And the Jeep is high up," Sophie added, sitting down behind the driver's seat.

"And we like being high up," Livvie elaborated, taking the position behind the passenger seat.

"Because we can see the people in their cars better," Sophie finished.

"Remind me when you are driving to accompany you when purchasing a vehicle," he shook his head, eliciting another round of giggles from the girls. Laura handed Sophie the toddler booster seat, then hoisted Holt up and into the vehicle. Climbing in behind him, she turned around in her seat and watched him dutifully buckle himself in before she started the engine then turned to grin at Remington.

"Let's see what this baby can do…"

* * *

"And my party's going to be at Chuck E. Cheese and I'm getting a puppy for my birthday!" Livvie shouted over her shoulder, sharing her news with the friends behind her.

Remington and Laura smoothly took a step backward to keep from being bowled over when Sophie ran past with Kai, Damerae and Bo in hot pursuit, laughter trailing in the children's wake.

"I never promised you a puppy!," he called after her retreating form, while laying a hand on Laura's arm when her lips parted to admonish the girls for running inside… again. She cast a questioning look at him. "Let it be. They're having fun, and it's the first time in days that I've seen Sophie quite so free," he advised in an undertone. Her eyes followed to where the children were weaving their way between a pair of couples chatting before they dashed outside. He was right. Sophie's face was lit with the simple joy of childhood, the shadow of fear nowhere to be found in her bright green eyes.

"Alright," she agreed. "I could use a bit of fresh air. You?" she asked with a nod of her head towards the open back of the house. The hand he lay on the small of her back to escort her was the only answer necessary.

"You know, it occurred to me on the drive over that I might be right," he mused.

"About?" she asked, lifting a hand and smiling at the wife of one of the store managers when she waved. Remington dipped down his head to speak in an undertone.

"This could well be the anniversary of that first kiss," he shared his suspicions. In fact, he'd found himself quite amused by the idea when it occurred to him. She laughed gaily at the notion.

"It was a good line," she complimented, breezily, "There's no need to build on it." She smiled and waved to B.B. who was standing at the buffet table with Marvin where they were filling their plates. "I didn't expect to see Marvin and B.B. here."

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Marvin leant Jocelyn and Monroe a hand when they were audited six months or so ago."

"Not Mildred?" she wondered, honestly surprised given Mildred had once been an auditor for the IRS.

"She gave him a bit guidance when necessary but believed his taking lead would be invaluable experience for him."

"I see." A thought niggled at the back of her mind. Was it possible Mildred was considering retiring sooner than later?

"Now back to that kiss—"

"Laura, C'mere," Bernice called, waving from where she and Jacelyn sat in front of the fire pit, glasses of wine in their hands.

"Duty calls," she sing-songed, while plucking a glass of white wine off a passing tray. Without a look back, she abandoned Remington where he stood.

"Later, then," he called to her back, then turned to go back inside the house, heading in the direction of the game room where he was virtually guaranteed a competitive game or two of pool.

"Nice Jeep," Bernice drawled. Laura took a seat in a thick cushioned patio chair across from Bernice.

"Oh, just a little surprise from my husband," she announced, breezily. Bernice laughed.

"Still kissing up after your blow up the other day?" she ventured.

"No," she rejected. "Neither an apology has been offered, nor will one be offered in the future." She offered Jocelyn and Bernice a sly smile, "At least not until he learns a very valuable lesson." Bernice's eyes lit with a eager gleam. Laura's lessons to 'Mr. Steele' were legendary and watching him try to squirm his way out was a bit like watching a frog after it was tossed into a boiling pot of water.

"What have you done?" she demanded to know.

"Not a thing," Laura claimed, with a lift and a drop of her hand, the cunning smile still playing on her lips. "He did it all on his own. He wants to plan Livvie's birthday party? It's all his." She flipped a hand as though brushing off an inconvenience.

"You didn't!" Jocelyn exclaimed, laughter bubbling past her lips.

"Oh, but I did. Just this morning, he was introduced to Chuck E. Cheese."

"Skeezix is going to lose his mind!" Bernice exclaimed with glee. Laura gave her a conspiratorial look.

"He's already had to call back twice to change the reservations." She took a sip of her wine, then added, "And I suspect he'll have to do it a third time come Monday."

"Why? What's going to happen on Monday?" Jocelyn asked. Laura plucked at a piece of imaginary lint on her slacks.

"Oh, let's just say Mr. Steele has a bad habit of signing things put before him without first reading them through," she replied mysteriously, "Although you'd _think_ after signing a promissory note for the Agency then allegedly losing the hand he'd bet it on, that he would have learned his lesson."

* * *

" _ **How did they forge your signature on the promissory note so that it fooled the experts?"**_

" _ **It was my signature."**_

" _ **Wait a minute. Fly that by me again"**_

" _ **Reuben was always in here with documents for Mr. Steele to sign. We figure one of those times he just slipped in the note."**_

" _ **Who reads those things anyway, Mildred."**_

* * *

"Remington did that?" Jocelyn wondered, clearly taken by surprise.

"Years, ago, but yeah, he did. And he still doesn't read anything he considers 'trivial.'"

"So what's the deal with the Jeep?" Bernice interjected.

"I have no idea, to be honest," she answered truthfully. "Likely nothing more than we no longer need the Explorers. The girls are out of car seats and Holt's in a booster and since we have no intention of expanding further—"

"C'mon, give," Bernice insisted. "We both know there's no way Skeezix shows up with something with that price tag and doesn't have a line ready and waiting for you." Laura threw back her head and laughed.

"He would _hate_ that you know him so well," she noted. She lifted and dropped her hands. "He claims it's for the anniversary of our first kiss." She rolled her eyes when Bernice gasped and Jocelyn fanned herself. "It's only a line. I saw the look on his face when I asked him what the occasion was. He _punted,_ nothing more. Now, on to more important matters," she turned her full attention to Bernice, "Has Mildred said anything to you that might lead you to believe she's considering retirement?"

"Nothing at all." Her eyes narrowed on Laura. "Why?" Laura shrugged her shoulders.

"Just wondering, that's all," she replied, then impulsively decided to share her thoughts. "She's been taking vacations, which is not at all like her. I usually have to pry her away from the office except for bowling nights. She volunteered to take time off and play 'room Mom' in Sophie and Livvie's classroom, to keep an eye on them until Roselli's caught. Then, tonight Remington tells me she handed off your…" she looked at Jocelyn "…audit off to Marvin. That's not like her." Bernice flicked a hand.

"You're worrying about nothing," she assured. "Mildred's not going to retire a day before she's seventy."

"That's exactly why I'm asking," Laura retorted. "She'll be sixty-nine next month."

"Nuh-uh," Bernice denied. "She told me she was fifty-eight, but I had her pegged at sixty, sixty one." Laura grinned.

"If she's fifty-eight she's aged precisely three years in the eleven years she's worked for us and even then when she started with us, she claimed to be a few years younger than she actually was." She frowned. "Incidentally, she said something to me the other day that I would love your take on."

"Go for it. What'd she say?"

"Something along the lines of that Remington has made peace with his past and is no longer afraid of it coming back to haunt him." Bernice took a couple sips of wine while she mulled the thought then shrugged a shoulder.

"I hadn't really thought about it before, but, yeah, I think she's right."

"How is that even possible?" Laura protested. "How has he made his peace with the past when I'm still waiting every day for it to show up on our doorstep and take him away? Alright, Thomas saw to it that Michael O'Leary, Paul Fabrini, Richard Blaine and all the rest of his identities have had their slates wiped clean. Maybe Scotland Yard or Interpol or whatever other law enforcement agency out there aren't looking or him, but he's made some enemies along the way. What if he inadvertently crosses one of their paths while we're traveling in Europe or one of those adversaries should happen to show up in LA?" She turned to face Jocelyn again. "Do you ever worry about Monroe's past coming back to haunt him?"

"No, not really," Jocelyn replied. "It's been a decade since he left 'the life' behind, and if someone has shown up, it would be news to me."

"C'mon, Laura, I really think you're worrying over nothing," Bernice stepped in to reason, "I mean its been almost eight years since—"

"Four," Laura quickly corrected. "Felicia? Right after Holt was born? Remember?"

"Even so, I think you're just letting the news about Roselli get to you," Bernice hypothesized.

"Could you blame me if that were the case?" Laura challenged, passionately. "The only thing that scares me more than his past is the past of Remington Steele. He's been framed for murder and nearly murdered by a man from my past, when I was the mythical Remington Steele. It could happen again. And how many enemies have we collected since he became Remington Steele? How many of those who haven't tried already are still looking to collect on a debt?" She paused and after emptying her glass of wine, reached for her brow to knead it. "Sophie's been waking every night screaming in terror, since we assigned Tank and Dozer to watch after the children. She's convinced 'the bad man' is there in the room with her and even as I'm comforting her, I'm thinking to myself, 'Well, there's another one, Laura. Gabriel Castoro." Jocelyn waggled her fingers at a server then held up her wine glass and three fingers. The server nodded his understanding.

"Are you thinking about getting out of the business?" she inquired. Laura considered the thought for a split second before she shook her head, rejecting the idea.

"No. Let's face it, Remington's not cut out for a regular job. He's as proficient as I at writing reports, but hates to do them. He despises little things like schedules, early mornings, and being stuck inside all day. He's a man that needs to be constantly challenged. If I'm honest, a large draw of becoming Remington Steele for him was that his skills as a conman and thief would constantly not only be used, but be put to the test. He felt at home in the shoes of my mythical detective because it really is who he is." She held out her hands palms up. "It's not different for me: Being a detective is not just a job, it's a large part of who I am. I can't give it up anymore than he could. We'd be going out of our minds within a week. Which brings me back to our argument yesterday."

"What about it?" Bernice prompted.

"You heard him." Laura's brows drew together in annoyance. "Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the people a floor up from us heard him. He claims I need to control everything, and he's right to a degree… not that I'd admit as much to him," she added with a grin. "So much is completely out of my control – especially the things that could threaten everything that matters to us, that I feel compelled to control the things I can." She blew out a long, frustrated breath, then automatically pasted a smile on her face when the server Jocelyn had signaled arrived with fresh glasses of wine. By the time one glass was exchanged for an empty one and the server departed, she'd decided she'd had enough of this particular conversation. "So, Jocelyn, Monroe as Shaft? He's certainly pulling it off…"

* * *

Later that evening, after the kids were tucked in bed, Remington lay on his back with Laura nestled into his side, lazily stroking her fingertips over his chest as the twilight of sleep began to descend.

"So, about that kiss…" he murmured in the darkness. Her fingers stilled.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she sighed. He held up pair of fingers preparing to explain.

"I admit, when I first suggested it, I was doing nothing more than having a bit of fun with you," he confessed. "Then it occurred to me, although it felt like an eternity – with you rejecting me at every turn and all—"

"Me, rejecting you?!" she laughed, aghast. "As I recall it, you were too busy parading bimbos through the office to offer me anything more than a smarmy comment now-and-again and the occasional leer." He waggled his brows in the darkness.

"Oh, it was far more often than occasional, I assure you."

"Uh-huh." She wasn't buying it for a second.

"The point is," he emphasized, "We'd only—"

He stopped abruptly when the portable phone on Laura's bedside table began to peal. He reluctantly unweaved his arm from around her when she moved to sit up.

"I remember, fondly now, the days when the phone rang or bullets rained down upon us whenever we kissed. Now we need only to talk about kiss—"

"Shhhh," she shushed him, as she hit the talk button. "Hello?"

"First my daughter, now my wife," he grumbled beneath his breath. "Who's it to be next?" His complaints earned another shushing sound.

"This is she… I understand… Are you sure?... How long ago?... Alright. If you wouldn't mind calling them back, let them know we'll be there within the hour…Goodnight." By the time she hung up the phone, he'd rolled to his side and propped his head in his hand.

"What is it?"

"I'll call Lina to come stay with the children. If Sophie wakes, she'll feel safe with her here. Go get dressed," she directed. "Lynnee's missing…"

On that note, Remington flopped face first down on the bed and pulled a pillow over his head, in protest. What did a man have to do to get a good night's sleep?


	37. Chapter 33: Child Lost

_**A/N1: STOP! Before reading any further, it's time to let your preference be known. Do we continue forward in Canon where our evil Roselli may... or may not... be planning his return? Or do we return to AU, where Laura is flying across the Atlantic to reach the side of her Mr. Steele?**_

 _ **A/N2: I thought I uploaded chapters 33-36 ten days ago. Ooops! Tons of reading for hump day!**_

* * *

Chapter 33: Child Lost

 _October 22, 1994_

 _Jessica peeked her head out of the elevator of the apartment building on Burton Way, and cautiously checked the hallway in both directions for any unwelcome witnesses. After confirming the coast was clear, she depressed the buttons on the elevator panel, assuring the lift would stop at every floor, buying her some time. Withdrawing the key to the apartment from her pocket, she checked the hall again then made a mad dash for the apartment door. Once she slipped safely inside, she closed the door, and, leaning her back against it, closed her eyes._

 _She was home. She was finally home._

" _Mom? Pops?" she called out._

 _The house remained still around her. That wasn't exactly surprising as it seemed her entire life her Mom and Pops would head out to the Flea Market and Farmer's Market as soon as they were up and around on Saturday. Still, she looked in her parents' open bedroom, finding it empty, then checked the kitchen with the same result. Purely out of habit, she removed a glass from the familiar cabinet their cups and mugs were stored in, then tugged open the refrigerator door._

 _She'd been gone a month, and still her Mom was grocery shopping like she still lived there… or was coming home soon. Her three favorite beverages were where they always were: Cans of Coke and two large bottles of Sunny Delight on the bottom shelf of the fridge and bottles of Yoohoo in the door. In the deli meats drawer she found the Oscar Meyer Bologna and Kraft American cheese she favored, and in the freezer cartons of Bagel Bites – pepperoni, of course. A check of the cabinets revealed new jars of Jif peanut butter, Marshmallow fluff and an unopened bag of Cool Ranch Doritos._

 _Pouring a glassful of Sunny D, Jessica's eyes wandered the kitchen, stilling when they reached the door. Approaching the jamb, she reverently traced the slash marks made by both pencil and marker across the years. She could measure nine years of her life by those marks, starting down there and stopping way up here, each line made by devoted parents that joyously chronicled each stage of her life._

 _She meandered through the living room, taking in the framed photographs that covered the walls there: Preschool graduation, a picture for every year in school, photos of family trips, holidays and her birthday. Her with a gap toothed smile, after losing her first tooth – a tooth that had flapped around in her mouth for days before her Pops convinced her to allow him to – painlessly – remove it. The first time she rode a two-wheeler, her Pops caught in the picture with a proud smile. She'd dumped the bike within seconds of that picture being snapped, both knees left dripping blood and stinging like all get out. Her Mom had cleaned and patched her up, then had sent her straight back out the door to try again. Her First Communion and Confirmation._

 _In was all there in living color - Her life, there on the walls: The life of Jessica Anna Sandberg Wright. Her life!... Not Lynn Marie Jefferson, whoever she was._

 _And this? she acknowledged as she entered a bedroom. This was her room, not that room at the other house: The room with walls painted the palest of yellows, with sketches of butterflies in gold frames on the wall, white eyelet comforter on the bed. This room with it's aqua colored walls, color block drapes, and matching comforter covering the sturdy wood bed. Here were her posters of Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and Boyz II Men, tacked onto her walls. This was the bulletin board her Mom had made for her, covered now in photos of friends, movie and concert ticket stubs, and a postcard of Tahoe from when she and her family had vacationed there last year. There was the desk at which she'd done all her homework through elementary school and partway through middle school before the couch in front of the television had become her preferred place. And here? She belly flopped on her bed, and buried her face in the pillow, breathing deeply. Here was her bed, the scent of Tide and Downy lingering on the sheets, the pillow that was molded perfectly to her head and the stuffed bear she'd had since she was four, always waiting to offer comfort should she need him._

 _Sitting up, she worked her legs under comforter and sheet then gathered her bear in her arms and closed her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept soundly, let alone had slept the night through…_

* * *

" _I'm just saying, Ange, I don't think it would hurt for us to talk to someone," David argued vociferously as followed her into the apartment and closed the door behind them. "Look at you!" She'd easily lost ten pounds in the last month and once bright eyes were now dull, with dark circles beneath them from nights of pacing first a jail cell then the floors of this apartment._

" _It's not just me," she answered wearily._

 _And it wasn't. Sleep was as elusive to him as it was to her, but rather than pacing the floors, he'd taken to parking himself in front of the television watching Nick-at-Night until the early morning hours, always with a tray of snacks nearby. An attempt to fill the nagging emptiness inside? Maybe. In a single month he'd gained what weight she'd lost._

" _Which is why I said us," he returned. "We lost a child, damn it! Our only child! We're grieving, just as if Jess had died, and I don't—"_

" _Don't say that!" she demanded hoarsely. Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed. "Jessie's not dead. She's alive, but we can't see her, or touch her, or hold her…" Her words broke off in sobs._

" _You scared the hell out of me last night, Ange. You could have died." In an attempt to sleep she'd combined a double dose of the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed her with half a bottle of scotch. When he'd arrived home from work, she'd barely been conscious._

" _I don't want to talk about this," she cried, waving her hands frantically as she fled the kitchen, making a beeline for Jessica's room – the only place she could feel close to her daughter since—_

 _She jerked to a stop, convinced the loss of her daughter had finally been too much and her mind had snapped. Tentatively, she approached the bed and sitting down carefully on the edge, reached out and stroked a hand over the girl's hair, a sob bursting past her lips when the girl lying there turned out to be very real and not a figment of her imagination._

 _Jessica's eyes fluttered open._

" _Mom!" she cried out, lurching upwards and throwing herself into Angela's arms, her frame quaking from the force of her anguish. "Mom!" Her fingers dug into Angela's back painfully, bruising the flesh, but Angela was mindless to anything but comforting her daughter. Gathering her tighter, they shed a torrent of tears together._

" _Let me look at you," Angela finally insisted, leaning back and brushing Jessica's tear dampened hair back from her face. The desolation in her daughter's eyes had her drawing the girl back into a hug. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant—"_

" _Ange—"_

 _Much like his wife before him, David was so stunned by what he was seeing that he stumbled to a stop._

" _Jess?"_

" _Pops!" Rushing to the side of the bed, he dropped to his knees and enveloped both wife and daughter in his arms. A minute ticked by, then David was the first to speak._

" _Jess, what are you doing here?" he asked, sitting back on his haunches. "Do you know how much trouble your Mom and me will be in if someone finds out you're here?"_

" _I hate it there," Jessie sobbed, wrapping her arms tighter around Angela and burying her face in the woman's shoulder. "Don't make go back. Please… Please?" she begged. Angela stroked Jessie's back trying to soothe her._

" _Oh, baby, you know if we didn't have to we wouldn't, but you heard what the police and the court said." It tore Angela's heart in two having to say those words. Desperate, she turned to David. "We could leave. Just pack a couple changes of clothes and leave, right now. We could disappear." Jessica lifted her head to look at her father with hope shining in her eyes. David pushed to his feet and dragged both hands down his face from forehead to chin in frustration._

" _This isn't the movies, Ange. People can't just disappear. You need money, fake I.D.'s, who knows what else, but I know we have none of those things just laying around here. We'd be caught in no time and then what? Jess goes back to the Jefferson's and we're going to jail." He shook his head adamantly. "No, no more. Too many people have been hurt already. We gotta do this right. Maybe get a loan or something and try to get at least some visitation."_

" _The Jefferson's will never let it happen! You know that!" Angela rebutted._

" _Can you blame them?" he shouted. "You kidnapped their kid! Look at what we're going through and we know Jessie's alive!" Angela gasped at the accusation, true though it might be. Jessie's tears started anew._

" _You're going to make me go back, aren't you?!" she cried out, turning back into Angela's arms for comfort. Her despair broke him, and for the first time since she'd been ripped out of their home, his shoulders shook and tears flowed._

" _Do you think that's what I want?" he choked. "You're my little girl." The sight of her father crying, the first time she'd ever witnessed him do so, saw Jessica tearing herself out of Angela's arms then standing and flinging herself into David's._

" _I'm sorry, Pops, I'm sorry," she apologized through her own tears._

" _No, I'm sorry," Angela interjected. "If hadn't done what I did, none of this would be happening." She swiped at the wetness on her face, as a determined look replaced her grief. Standing she went to David and Jessica. "But even knowing what happens, I'd do it all again so that we could have these last twelve years." Jessica stepped out of her father's embrace and stood at his side. Angela quickly stepped close, cupping her daughter's cheeks in her palms, and wiping at the tears with her thumbs. "I love you as much as if I had carried you under my heart for nine months. You saved my life, Jessie. You gave me a reason to get up each morning. I have never been so proud of or have loved anyone as much as I love you." She narrowed her eyes. "I would do it all again," she vowed with determination, "No matter how selfish that is."_

" _Then let me stay," Jessie pleaded again._

" _I can't," Angela cried out with anguish. "I can't! As much as I want us together, I can't. They won't let you stay here and if we did run away I'd be robbing you of everything you deserve: Your friends, homecoming…" she stroked a hand over Jessica's hair "…prom, going to college. If I love you, I can't want anything less than everything for you."_

" _Don't do this!" She stomped a foot and turned beseeching eyes on her father. "Pops, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease don't make me go back. Please."_

 _It would prove to be the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life to date. Squaring his shoulders, shoving down his emotions, and giving her the I'm-done-discussing-this-you'll-do-as-told fathers everywhere have bestowed upon the children, told her firmly:_

" _Give your Mom a hug goodbye. I'll drive you back and drop you at the corner from the house."_

 _Jessica looked back-and-forth between her parents, then her face turned to stone._

" _I hate you both," she whispered, then stomped to her bed, grabbed her stuffed bear off of it, and stormed out of the room._

" _I love you, Jessie!" Angela called after her, her voice cracking._

" _But you don't want me!" Jessica yelled back._

 _It was the last words David and Angela would hear their daughter say to them._

 _On the drive back to the Jefferson's, David tried to coax her into talking with him, begged her to try to understand. In the end, when he slowed the car next to the curb at the corner of the Jefferson's street, she threw open the door and ran…_

* * *

 _Jessica slipped though the white vinyl fence gate, into the backyard, then scrambled up into the treehouse – a place she'd sought refuge on more than one occasion since being forced to come here. Folding herself into the corner of the small structure, she dragged her knees up to her chest and clutched the stuffed bear to her. Her last hope had been dashed and she had no idea what to do. She didn't belong anywhere anymore, not at this house and not at the one she'd just come from. She had no one she could go to that would take her in, either their parents would send her back or it would be one of the first places someone would look for her._

 _She didn't belong here, but there was nowhere else. She'd have to find some way to survive until she could leave and no one could drag her back._

 _She rocked in the corner for an hour – maybe far longer – searching for the wherewithal to walk through those doors as though nothing was wrong, while trying to fight off the feeling the everything was closing in on her. She may have stayed longer had her 'brother' Josh's head not preceded the rest of him through the trap door._

" _What are you doing here?" he asked, no malice in his voice, only curiosity._

" _I'll leave," she volunteered hastily and scrambled towards the door._

" _You don't have to. It's cool with me if you want to hang," he offered._

" _No thanks." Josh was nice enough but she felt no link to him, like she should – he was just more proof of how she didn't belong. Her toes found purchase on the ladder beneath her._

" _Mom's freaking," Josh forewarned._

 _It was a friendly warning, but one that nonetheless made her blood run cold. Barbara was constantly on her, suffocating her, demanding to know where she was every second of every day, preferring Jessie never left her sight at all. She was shocked there weren't bars on her bedroom windows and doors, to keep her imprisoned. Actually, that wasn't true. The truth was, she was amazed Barb didn't sit in the chair in the corner of her bedroom all night long just staring at her, didn't stand outside of the shower while she bathed herself… that she didn't find a way to sit next to her in her classes every day!_

" _What else is new?" she replied, crossly, then quickly climbed down the ladder._

 _She paused to the side of the sliding glass doors that led into the great room and peeked into the house. Finding kitchen and family room empty, she quietly slid the door open, then shut it just as silently behind her. A quick escape up the back stairs and soon she was safely behind the closed door of_ _ **her**_ _room. Not her, Jessie, but her Lynnee._

 _Crossing the room, avoiding the bed, she curled up in the window seat, holding her bear close._

 _She, Jessie, hated everything about this room from the pale yellow on the walls – 'You're favorite color, Lynnee' Barb had proclaimed – to the frippery of the comforter, the lamps, pictures and drapes. Lynnee might have liked yellow – Jessie's second most least liked color and all the boring frills. She, Jessie, liked bright and bold colors that made you feel alive and vibrant and young. She liked posters on the walls, a lava lamp on her bedside table, a large pink furry rug on her floor and the stickers she'd plastered over her desk drawers when she was six._

 _She liked her own clothes: Shortalls with one strap hanging down, worn with a long-sleeved lightweight T and a plaid shirt tied around her waist; jeans with a t-shirt emblazoned with her favorite band name and a pair of 'shit kicker' boots; and plaid skirts worn with a complementary black short sleeve sweater and black knee socks. Her clothes had always been a reflection of who she was and how she was feeling. A little rebellious? T-shirt, jeans and boots it was to be. A little flirtatious? The plaid skirt ensemble. Just hanging out? There were the shortalls._

 _Like the room was_ _ **hers**_ _, so too were the clothes hanging in the closet. She, Jessie, hadn't been permitted to take any of her belongings with her when she'd been forced from her home. Instead, the following day, she'd been dragged to the mall, but not to the stores she favored like Hot Topics, Merry Go Round, Gadzooks and Miller's Outpost. No, she'd found herself in County Seat, Casual Corner and The Gap, where armfuls of pastel polos, oxfords, and a dozen different styles of varying shades of tan slacks were thrust upon her. Contrary to what Beverly Hills 90210 portrayed, all teens in the Los Angeles era did not run around the city in muted, preppy, soulless clothing._

 _She'd refused to wear them. Instead, day-after-day tugging on the jeans and t-shirt she'd arrived in – until Barb had seen to it that those had disappeared from the dryer… and from anywhere in the house._

 _She, Jessie, was being erased one color, one piece of clothing at a time._

 _She jumped, then eased herself closer to the window when the door to her bedroom was flung open._

" _Where have you been?" Barb demanded to know. She'd been frantic when Lynnee had disappeared from the house that morning. She couldn't bear to let her daughter out of her sight, the hours she spent at school akin to torture. She knew better than anyone, after all, what can happen when you take your eyes off your child, if only for a minute._

" _I just went for a walk," Jessie offered, sullenly, then turned her head to look out the window._

" _What have I told you about just taking off like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Barb persisted._

" _I just went for a walk," Jessie repeated, not even turning her head to look at Barb this time._

" _That's not how we do things around here," Barb fussed. "In this home, we tell people where we are going, with who, and how long we'll be gone." At the window, Jessie's shoulders lifted and fell on a forlorn sigh. "Are you listening to me?" Barb waited for several ticks of the second hand for an answer. When her daughter remained silent, she grew more frustrated. "Lynn Marie Jefferson, are you—"_

" _That's not my name," Jessica murmured, pressing herself more firmly to the window, unconsciously trying to put more space between herself and the woman she viewed not as her mother, but her tormenter. Barbara's face blanched in response._

" _What did you say?" The events over the last month and this morning conspired to give Jessie a voice she hadn't been able to find during her captivity. Turning she faced Barb._

" _I said… My… name… is… not… Lynn Marie Jefferson!" She emphasized each word, becoming more upset with each passing word. "I am not Lynn Marie Jefferson," she screamed. "This is not my house! This is not my room! These are not my clothes! You are not my mother and this is not my life!" Her younger 'sister,' Katie, came bounding into the room before she was finished._

" _Shut up!" she screamed at Jessica. "Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-shut-up! I'm sick of you! You're ruining everybody's life and all you can do is feel sorry for yourself! Poor Lynnee," she shouted, mockingly, "Boo-hoo-hoo. I was stupid enough to get kidnapped! Everyone wants me! It's so hard to be Lynnee!"_

" _I'm not Lynnee!" Jessica screamed back._

" _Yes! You are!" Barb protested, moving towards Jessica with her arms open. "You're my baby girl, my firstborn. You—"_

" _No! I'm not! I'm not!" She jerked away when Barb drew too near and moved across the room, putting as much distance between her and Barb as she could. "I'm Jessica Anna Sandberg Wright. My parents are Angela and David Wright." Her head swung towards Katie. "I'm an only child and don't have a bitch for—"_

" _Lynnee!" Barb shouted before she could finish that thought aloud. Jessica's foot stomped on the floor._

" _Don't call me that!" she yelled._

" _What's going on in here?" Josh demanded to know as he ran into the room._

" _I am Jessica! Jessica!" the girl continued. "Lynnee is dead!"_

 _So horrified by the last words Jessie shouted was Barb, that she would swear she'd blacked out temporarily._

" _Barbie, have you lost your mind?" Josh shouted. A hard blink and Barbara looked around with some confusion, although the stinging of her hand, the way her daughter covered a cheek with both hands, the look of utter betrayal in Jessica's eyes and Josh's hand clamped around her wrist told enough of the tale._

" _Oh, God, Lynnee!" Barb rushed forward to embrace Jessica, but the girl shook her head adamantly then ran out of the room. "Lynnee!" She hurried to give chase, only to find her arm firmly shackled by a hand, again._

" _For God's sake, give her some time," Josh insisted, rigidly. "Katie, go and find something to do," he instructed their middle child in almost the same breath._

" _Let me go," Barb commanded, trying to wrench her arm free, as Katie ran from the room much as Jessica had before her._

" _No!" he shot back. "I'm done keeping my mouth shut!" He flung her arm away, but bodily blocked the exit from the room. "It's time to start asking yourself, Barbie, if it's worth destroying her just so you can have her, because I've gotta tell you: I don't think I can watch her suffer much longer."_

 _With that Josh stormed from the room towards the master bedroom while Barb raced out behind him, turning in the opposite direction to find Lynnee…_

* * *

 _By ten-thirty that evening, the tension that had been building in the Jefferson household over the last month erupted. Lynnee had neither returned home nor had been heard from. Barb hurled accusations at Josh, convinced that had he not blocked her pursuit of their daughter, she would be here, safe. He, on the other hand, accused her of being so overbearing and inflexible that she'd chased Lynnee away. Their frustration only continued to mount as they searched Lynnee's room for any clues as to where she might have gone._

" _She's been here a month and there's not a trace of her in this room," he observed. "It's sterile. What does that tell you?"_

" _So she's a tidy kid. What's your point?" Barb glowered._

" _No one is this 'tidy,'" he refuted. "There's not a single thing in this room that belongs to her. There's no books, no pictures, no notebooks with drawings—"_

" _What's your point?" she snapped, as she went through the dresser drawers._

" _You check into a hotel room and within an hour you've spread out across it," he elaborated with irritation. In his view, you'd have to be completely blind not to understand. "You've hung up clothes you don't want to risk wrinkling; razor, shaving cream, make up and hairspray are scattered over the bathroom counter; a jacket or clothes you've change out of are slung over a chair… Look around, Barb! This room is the same as it was a year ago except the clothes you bought her are hung in the closet or folded in drawers – and it would be my guess that you did those things. The only sign anyone exists in this room is her backpack sitting on the desk chair and that old bear on the window seat." He waved an arm in the general direction of the window, drawing Barb's eyes in that direction. "She is completely disconnected from this room, this house… and from us!" Standing, Barb moved quickly across the room and yanked the stuffed animal up and examined it: Worn, a bit tattered and clearly well-loved, it wasn't something Lynnee had recently bought and it hadn't arrived with her. She strode to the bedroom door_

" _Joshy, Katie, come here, please," she called down the hallway towards their bedrooms._

" _What are you doing?" Josh asked with exasperation. "We agreed to keep them out of this." Ignoring him, she waited until their youngest two offspring appeared in the doorway, then held up the bear._

" _Do either of you have any idea where this came from?"_

" _Who cares?" Katie sniped with a roll of her eyes._

" _Katie, just answer the damned question," Josh reprimanded._

" _No, I don't know, okay? God, why are you guys are making yourself crazy. She hates it here and she hates us!"_

" _No, she doesn't," Barb denied._

" _Yes, she does Mom!"_

" _Katie, that's enough," Josh ordered, wearily._

" _She had the bear when I found her in the treehouse earlier," Joshy announced._

" _When was that? Before or after our… after she got upset and left?" Barb questioned._

" _After she disappeared this morning." Barb's face drained of color when she put it together._

" _She went there," she noted, in a dazed voice._

" _Kids, go to your rooms," Josh ordered, as Barb pushed past them out of the room, then took off in pursuit of their mother. "Barb, what are you doing?!"_

" _I'm calling the cops," she replied, her fury painted on her face as she grabbed the portable phone off Josh's bedside table. "The Wrights were ordered to have no contact with Lynnee. I want them arrest—" He grabbed the phone from her hand._

" _We're not calling the police!" he insisted._

" _Yes, I am!" she countered trying to grab the phone back._

" _No! You aren't! It's time to stop this madness and if you won't, I will," he insisted as he dialed a trio of digits into the phone. "I'm calling the Wrights. If she's not with them, then I'm going to ask them over to help."_

" _No, you're not!" she rejected, frantically grabbing for the phone. "They kidnapped our baby!"_

" _Yes, she did! But in case you haven't noticed it, Barb, she's not ours anymore! How many different ways does she have to show and tell you?" he shouted. The truth of that statement devastated him, but it was the harsh reality of where they were. He forced himself to speak calmly when the operator answered, spinning away from Barb when she tried to grab the phone again. "I need the number for David and Angela Wright on Burton Way—"_

" _Then I'm calling the detective agency I used to find her," she shouted as she made a last, desperate grab for the phone._

" _Fine!" he snapped, to the sound of the keys tapping coming through the phone, "But we're not calling the police unless it's a last resort!"…_

* * *

Which is how an intrepid detective duo were ripped from their warm bed, late on a Saturday evening…


	38. Chapter 34: Compromises

Chapter 34: Compromises

Remington tugged loose his tie and popped open the topmost button of his shirt, then settled into the passenger seat of the GT350, leaning back against the headrest, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. He'd been driving at the start of this venture, but had relinquished control of the wheel some hour-and-a-half before, content to let Laura drive while he rested his eyes. Despite the fact it was shortly after four a.m., a case to be solved had adrenalin running through her veins, providing a nice energy boost when couple with the thermos of coffee she'd made while Remington had dressed.

"Now that we've disturbed the blissful slumber of a half dozen families to no avail, what next?" he questioned as she started the engine of the car, where it was parked outside of one of those homes.

"We check out her known list of hangouts," she answered, smoothly pulling the car away from the curb. The teens they'd spoken to had provided a list of the places 'Jessie' favored.

"Wasted effort, should you ask me," he muttered, shifting in his seat, trying to get a bit more comfortable.

"Oh, why's that?" she wondered, as she pointed the car in the direction of the mall.

"It defeats the purpose of running if you go where you'll be found. It makes about as much sense as returning to the scene of the crime if you don't wish to be caught," he pointed out logically. A smile quirked at her lips.

"Speaking from experience?" she barbed. He peeked open one eyes, saw that smirk and frowned, before shifting in his seat again and reclosing the eye.

"As a matter of fact, I am, though not in the way you imply," he answered. "When I ran from the orphanage, I got as far away from there as possible, as quickly as possible. I'd learnt my lesson after being easily snared when I ran from a particularly brutal home a couple years before." She visibly winced. There were days his childhood was at the forefront of her mind, and others… well, there were times she put her foot in her mouth. Reaching over, she threaded their fingers together and gave his hand a gentle squeeze of apology. Eyes never opening, he lifted their joined hands, bussed the back of hers then returned them to his lap.

The reunification of Lynnee/Jessica with her natural family had been worse than she'd feared, if what was relayed by the Wrights and Jefferson's was to be believed, and she saw no reason it shouldn't be. Josh, while escorting the Steele's to his daughter's room to do a search of their own, had haltingly shared how the teen had withdrawn since she'd been found and returned to her rightful family. She steadfastly refused to acknowledge Josh and Barb by a name of any form; she spoke only when pressed; she'd share no details with them about her life between the time of her kidnapping and recovery; and she isolated herself from the rest of the family as often as she could, staying in her room, emerging often with reddened eyes. Katie hadn't exactly made things any easier on the girl, resentful of the restrictions placed on her throughout her life because of the sister that had been kidnapped, and openly blaming her for Barbara's state in the years after.

The hardest part, he'd shared, was realizing how he'd failed his family. Had he believed Barbie all those years ago when she'd sworn on her life their Lynnee was there at the elementary school, how much different might things have been for their family? Lynnee would have been so young, and wouldn't have spent much more time with the Wright's than she had the Jefferson's. Maybe she would have acclimated easier. Perhaps she would have still had some memory of them. But by a dozen years after her kidnapping, she had no recollection of her family and she grieved for the family with whom all her memories had been made. What if? What if…

David and Angela carried their own burden of guilt. While Angela couldn't apologize for what she'd done, she was able to acknowledge it was her actions that had led first to the Jefferson's suffering and now the child she considered her own. David, on the other hand, carried guilt that Angela hadn't even conceived of, beating himself up for missing the signs something was amiss and for not paying closer attention after the elementary school episode. Above all, he couldn't let go of the feeling he'd failed his wife and child: Both were hurting tremendously and there was nothing he could do to stop their pain. Now, their daughter was out there, somewhere, alone after he'd refused to allow her to stay… or to go on the run.

But of the four, it was Barb who'd suffer the worst, in Laura's opinion – and she was inclined to believe anyone would be hard-pressed to disagree. A difficult afternoon and a mistaken belief Josh had taken Lynnee with him to get ice cream had conspired to rob her of her child – and nearly her sanity. Laura couldn't begin to imagine the guilt Barb had carried with her across the years. She wasn't quite sure how she and Remington would find a way to move forward if something similar happened to one of the children – the mere thought was gut-wrenching and without conscious thought, she gripped his hand more firmly in hers. What she did know, with absolute conviction, is – much like Barb – she would not take it on the police's word alone that her child had drowned. She would hunt the far corners of the world until she drew her last breath… and had not a single doubt Remington would be at her side the entire way.

A day of family fun at the beach and so many lives had been turned upside down. Remington's kismet at work? Perhaps. How many events had to come together to make this tragedy unfold: A woman who'd lost her husband and the child she'd been carrying in a horrifying accident, the decision to take her life bringing her to the beach where the Jeff—

She gave the steering wheel a hard yank to the left turning the car into a tire-squealing u-turn. Remington jerked awake next to her and instinctively braced himself against the dashboard.

"Bloody hell, Laura, you might warn a man!" he scolded, crossly.

"I think I know where she is, Mr. Steele," she announced, with a self-satisfied smile.

"Do tell." She turned her head to look at him.

"We have to go back to the beginning…"

* * *

Dawn's early light was streaking the sky on the horizon as Laura turned off the engine of the GT350 in the parking lot of the beach in Santa Monica from where Lynn Marie Jefferson had gone missing. There on the beach, midway to the water, sat a long figure, huddled in the sand and facing the waves.

"How do we wish to play this?" Remington inquired, with a lift of his brows.

"I'd like to speak with her by myself, if you don't mind," she informed him, opening the car door and swiveling in her seat so that her legs hung out the opening. Bending over, she took off her heels and tossed them in the back seat as she spoke. "Would you mind giving me a couple of minutes head start, then calling the Jefferson's and asking that they and the Wright's join us here?"

"I can do that," he agreed, watching as she wriggled out of her hosiery.

"If they arrive before I've finished talking to her, have them wait with you until I signal, alright?" she requested, slipping out of her suit jacket and tossing it in the backseat with heels and hose. His nod was all the answer she required, and she stood to get out of the car.

"Uh, Laura, a word of advice," he called before she moved too far away. She turned to look at him then waited. "Remember who it is you are speaking to." He didn't need to explain further, and she nodded once, sharply, then spun in the direction of the beach, his eyes following her as she strode across the parking lot towards the sand.

"Jessica?" Laura called softly, when she came within a yard of the teen. Jessica jerked upright, stiffened… then an instant later wilted before Laura's eyes, dropping her head to her knees and pulling her legs up tight against her body.

"You're going to make me go back, aren't you?" Laura shook her head as she sat down in the sand.

"I'm not the police, Jessica. I can't force you to do anything you don't wish to do and I give you my word, no one's contacted the police." The girl sighed deeply, out of relief or disbelief she wasn't sure. She held her silence then, waiting Jessica out. "What are you doing out here?" she finally asked after Jessica had remained mute for a pair of minutes.

"I used to have these dreams when I was little," Jessica suddenly spoke, her quiet voice muffled further by the sound of the surf. "They weren't like the way I dream now, but more like…" forehead still resting on her knees she shook her head, fighting to explain "…more like a bunch of senses and feelings." She lifted her head and rested her chin on her knees, staring blindly out over the water. "Water," she licked her lips "…salt. Heat. Angry. Someone's angry. Bright light. The color red. Lonely. Sad." She shook her head again "Confused, like I used to feel when I got too dizzy from twirling." She drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Do you think it's about that day?" The question gave Laura pause. The early morning air had a bit of a nip to it, and she absently rubbed her arms, as she carefully considered the question.

"I think it's possible, yes." Jessica nodded her head up and down rapidly, her eyes welling.

"I don't even remember them, except _her_ ," she spat the word. "Not what she looked like, but how much she hated me. She was always angry, always yelling at me, telling me I was bad."

"Barb didn't hate you, Jessica and she never meant to hurt you," Laura ventured, quietly. "It's not an excuse and she's admitted that you bore the brunt of her... emotional... struggles after Joshy was born, but I can promise you, if she could go back and change things she would." Jessica shook her head forlornly.

"Maybe she's right and I am bad. "I've ruined _their_ lives because I let myself get kidnapped. I ruined Mom and Pop's life." She turned tear filled eyes towards Laura. "I know what she did was wrong," she shared with a shaky voice, swiping at the tears that had begun to spill over. "I know I should hate her for it and never want to see her again," she sniffed loudly, "But she's a really good Mom. She's _my_ Mom." Laura scooted closer to Jessica, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, Jess—" She was stopped short when Jessica sprang to her feet, suddenly a whirlwind of motion.

"Katie's right," she screeched at no one in particular. "I'm stupid. Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid-stu—" She pummeled her head with her fists in time with each syllable she spoke. Laura launched to her feet and grabbed Jessica in a bear hug to stop her from hurting herself further.

"That's not true!" She insisted, then reiterated it again. "It's _not_ true. You were three-years-old. You were just a little girl!" Jessica ripped herself out of Laura's embrace and began frantically pacing.

"It's gone. All of it's gone. There's nothing left because of me," she screamed. Laura's eyes flickered towards the parking lot and found Remington with hands in pockets, strolling slowly in their direction. She held up a hand to indicate all was fine and he should stay where he was.

"What's gone, Jessica?"

"Everything," she shrieked, then gesticulated wildly as she continued, "My school, my friends, my house, my room, my clothes, my things, my Pops…" her voice cracked, and she stopped screaming, now choking on the words, trying to get them out "…my Mom." She stomped a foot to the ground. "She going to go to jail because of me," then keened, "Me. I'm gone." She collapsed to the sand on her knees, and wrapping her arms around herself, rocked and sobbed. Laura dropped to her knees beside her – blinking her eyes to ward off her own tears – and reached out a hand to rub the girl's back, offering what comfort she could, for a long as Jessica would accept it.

"That's not true," she assured, elongating each word. "You're right here, you're not—"

"It is true! It is!" Jessie rasped. "I'm not allowed to be Jessie anymore. I have to be Lynnee. I have to go to her school, live in her house with her family and sleep in her room and wear her clothes." The strength of her sobs shook her body. "I'm Jessie, not Lynnee." She looked up at Laura with a plea in her wet eyes. "I didn't think I was so bad." This time when Laura reached for her she went willingly, almost desperately into her embrace.

As Jessica wept, Laura discovered she was having difficulty remaining unaffected. One of the reasons she enjoyed her line of work was because she and Remington took the wrong and made it right, and when they couldn't do that, at least they could offer their clients some form of justice. But there was nothing 'just' about this case: To save a mother's sanity, they'd inadvertently been party to breaking that mother's child. She held Jessie a little closer as she wept her grief, and stroking her hand over the girl's hand and back, murmured the same, soothing words she'd whisper to Livvie, Sophie or Holt were she holding them instead. She had no idea how long they'd kneeled there in the sand, although the arrival of two sets of headlights in the parking lot above confirmed good deal of time had passed before Jessie's sobs were reduced to sniffles.

"Come on," Laura finally spoke while giving Jessica's back a brisk and encouraging rub. "Sit with me." Jessie sat down, and drew her knees up to her chest, in the very position Laura had first found her. "I'll bet you don't know my husband, Mr. Steele, is in line for the throne of England." Whether it was her lighthearted tone, the sudden change of topic or the news itself that produced the shocked look on Jessie's face, she didn't know. "We even have a castle in Ireland."

"For real?" Jessie asked, with a doubtful look, swiping away a lingering tear. Laura lifted her hand in oath and smiled.

"Honest to God," she vowed. "His Lordship, the Thirteenth Earl of Claridge." With a bit of her husband's flair for drama, she studied her nails as though the news she was about to impart was inconsequential. "Pretty impressive for a boy spent a good deal of his childhood as an orphan living alone on the streets of London, huh?" She tilted her head and slanted her eyes towards Jessie, noting she'd captured her full attention.

"All alone? He didn't have anyone to take care of him?" Laura nodded her head slowly.

"Not until he was only a year younger than you are now when someone took him in, gave him a home and provided him with food, clothes and an education," she confirmed. "So, I'm sure you can understand how shocked he was when many years later he found out his father was not only very much alive, but had spent decades searching for the son who'd been lost to him." Jessica's eyes widened. "You see, Mr. Steele's parents were very young when they married and had him. Shortly after he was born a … misunderstanding… between his parents had lead his mother to take him to Ireland, where she died when he was very young. His father had no idea where he was or even that he'd been given a different name."

"That's sad," Jessie interjected, earning a thoughtful nod from Laura.

"It is. But when his father found him, Mr. Steele discovered himself in a predicament very similar to your own: It turned out he wasn't Remington Steele, at all, but had been born Sean James Fitzgerald. Since the day his father had lost him, Sean was only name name he'd ever thought of his son by. Why wouldn't he?" she asked with a lift and a drop of her hand. "It was the name he'd been given by his parents when he was born, after all. As for Mr. Steele? He suddenly had this other name, his _legal_ name, which by all rights was the name to which he should be referred. And for him, it was even a little more complicated than for you: By virtue of his birth alone he found himself suddenly in line for the throne, with a royal title and all the rights and responsibilities that came with it." She turned her head and looked at Jessie. "So what's the problem, right?" she asked with a lift of her brows. "I mean, who wouldn't want to find out they're royalty?"

"But he didn't?" the girl guessed. Laura lifted and dropped her hands, nodding her head sagely.

"It's not as simple people looking in from the outside seem to think it is. I mean, he was being handed on a silver platter a life that most people could only dream of having," Laura reasoned. "But it's far more complicated than those people think. He had no memory of being this Sean James Fitzgerald. Everything that mattered to him had been created as Remington Steele: our marriage, our home and a successful business. When he looked into the mirror, he didn't see this other person, but Remington Steele." Next to her, Jessie sighed heavily and leaning her chin on her knees, drew designs with her fingertip in the sand.

"At least he had a choice," she noted, sadly, having drawn the parallel to her own life.

"He did," Laura agreed, "He compromised." This tidbit caught Jessie's full attention.

"How?" Laura shrugged her shoulders.

"With a great deal of sometimes very painful honesty by both himself and his father," she shared. "No matter what name he was born with, life had made him Remington Steele. It's who he is, and if there was to be any relationship between him and his father, they both had to acknowledge that." She picked up a handful of sand, and cupping it, let it flow from her hand much like sand in an hourglass. "I won't lie. It wasn't easy for his father. I wouldn't be surprised at all if his father still sees 'Sean' when he looks at Mr. Steele, and I think I've only heard him refer to Mr. Steele as 'Remington' a handful of times in more than eight years, instead referring to him as 'Son.' Then, there was the second stipulation: He'd be willing to take on the responsibilities that the entitlements-" Picking up a fresh handful of sand, she looked at Jessie and explained, "-the lands and properties he'd inherit as well as his position on the board of the family company – but not at the cost of his life here, which meant more concessions had to be made by both him and his father. Now, a couple times a year, Mr. Steele flies to London for board meetings, and each summer we take a couple of weeks, vacationing in Ireland and London so he can oversee the properties and his father comes here for several months each fall and winter."

"The Jefferson's will never compromise, especially her," Jessie replied with a heavy heart.

"I don't know that's true," Laura replied, thoughtfully. "I think Josh is ready to compromise." Jessie's head jerked upwards and in her eyes, for the first time on the evening, Laura found a light of hope. And then it was extinguished.

"But not her," she concluded with resignation.

"Maybe, this where a concession from you is needed," Laura suggested, gently. "Just as very few people can understand what it is like for you and Mr. Steele suddenly having this other life – identity even – thrust upon you, there aren't very many people who will ever understand what it's like to have your child first stolen from you then returned to you as someone else. For the last twelve years, you've thought of yourself as Jessie and all your memories have been made as Jessie. It's no different for Barb: For your entire life you've been Lynn Marie to her, and every single time she's thought of you, either fearing for you or imagining your first day in kindergarten, she's thought of you as Lynnee. And that's just the top of the iceberg…" Jessie frowned.

"What do you mean?" as Laura reached for more sand.

"Well, to start, I imagine she's terrified if she takes her eyes off of you for even a minute, you may disappear," she offered. "After all, she's learned that lesson the most painful way possible… right here on this beach." Jessie huffed out a breath.

"I'm not going to get kidnapped again," she countered.

"I agree, the odds are that won't happen, but that's not the only way you could disappear, is it?" Laura posed the question. She held out her arms, indicating the beach they sat on. "You could run away, for example…" she cast a look in Jessie's direction "…or go on the lam with the Wright's." Jessie visibly flinched.

"They know?" Laura nodded her head.

"Your Mom and Pops have been with the Jefferson's all night, trying to help us find you," she shared. The girl's eyes widened with surprise.

"They have?"

"They have," Laura confirmed. "In fact, when Mr. Steele and I left to look for you, all _four_ of your parents were having a very open and frank discussion about was best for you." She reached out and stroked a hand against Jessie's back. "What's happened to you isn't fair, Jessie and now you're being forced to grow up long before you should have to, but you can't turn back time no matter how much you'd like to do so. You're going to have to try to put yourself in other's shoes and be prepared to make concessions, but I can promise you, the people waiting for you in the parking lot right now, are prepared to make some compromises of their own if it means your peace of mind." Jessie sat up straight and her head swiveled so she could look over her shoulder at the parking lot. Laura had see that look of desperate hope in someone else's eyes on occasions in the past and the memory of stole her breath for an instant.

"My Mom and Pops?" Jessica asked, with longing tinging her words.

"And the Jefferson's. Give them a chance, Jessie. They're as much victims as you are."

"I'll try," she promised, shifting to her knees. "Can I go see them?" Laura didn't have to ask to know she meant the Wright's, not the Jefferson's. _Maybe in time._

"I think they'd like that."

Jessie was sprinting across the sand towards the parking lot before she'd finished. Standing and wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill, Laura followed behind at a much more sedate pace. When she arrived at the edge of the pavement, Remington was waiting to drop his jacket over her shoulders.

"Thanks," she acknowledged, her eyes on the quintet of people ten yards away. Stepping behind her, he rubbed her arms, the friction easing some of the chill away.

"I have to give them credit," he told her in a hush tone, so as not to interrupt any discussions that might be taking place nearby, "They're all prepared to make some considerable sacrifices in the name of her happiness." She tipped her head back to look at him.

"Oh?" He pursed his lips and nodded his head, slowly.

"Angela will be moving in with a friend for a bit, to start, and Jessica will return to live in the Burton Way flat with David. That he refused to go on the run this morning held a good deal of weight with the Jefferson's. But Barbara wasn't comfortable with Angela being alone with Jessica, given her…" he cleared his throat "…history."

"So Angela volunteered to move out if it meant Jessica could go back to her home," she speculated.

"Mmmm hmmmm. Angela also announced she intends to plead guilty next month at her court hearing as she feels it is important Jessica sees her take responsibility for what she's done."

"Which explains why she'll live with a friend for just 'a bit'," she concluded then crinkled her nose. "I feel sorry for her in a way," she admitted. "If not for an accident, she'd never have been as desperate as she was and now she's going to lose a child all over again." Her eyes shifted to Jessie, who was standing in front of the Jefferson's with her arms crossed in front of herself in a self-protective gesture. "The weight of the guilt over Angela going to prison may crush Jessie," she worried.

"Mmmm. The Wright's and Jefferson's have agreed to begin family counseling on Monday with a therapist who specializes in child custody issues," he informed her. "They'll lay out every last detail, then work with the therapist in Jessica's best interests."

"I'm impressed." His eyes traveled to the group of people, taking in the tension in everyone's shoulders, the wariness in Angela's eyes, and the quiet anger in Barb's.

"It's a tall task," he considered aloud. "Think they can pull it off?" She tilted her head to the side and gave it some thought.

"I'd like to think to so," she finally said, "For Jessica's sake." With a final, brisk rub of her arms, he stepped out from behind him and held out an arm towards the Wright's and Jefferson's.

"Shall we say our goodbyes?"…


	39. Chapter 35: On The Trail

Chapter 35: On The Trail

Never had the Steele's been more grateful for Lina that they were on Sunday morning. They hadn't dragged themselves through the front door of Casa Malaga until after eight, and by then, of course, the three Steele children were up and about, looking forward to planning the day ahead with their parents. Lina had smoothly stepped in announcing…

"I promised Mama I would take these three tarachopoioús along to Sunday School and Church this morning, to get a bit of the devil out of them." The comment had been met with giggles from Sophie and Livvie while Holt tilted his head in question but remained silent. "Your Zach has asked to join us, although I suspect it is far less about Church than it is the picnic on the beach we will enjoy afterwards."

Zach hadn't joined them because of either, of course, but to provide protection should the need arise, without engaging the use of Tank or Dozer for Sophie's sake. Laura and Remington's gratitude had known no bounds, as they tumbled into bed only to be roused – in what seemed only minutes later – when their youngest escaped Lina's watchful eye, dressed in his swim trunks and ready for an afternoon at the beach. Laura dragged open grainy eyes to find the boy watching her intently.

"We build sandcaskles, Mommy?" Her eyes flickered to the alarm clock on her bedside table: twelve-forty-seven. Well, at least they had managed a solid three-and-a-half hours – much more than that and sleep that evening would prove elusive. Sitting up, she dragged her hands through her hair.

"I think we can manage that," she agreed. "Go see Thea Lina. Da and I will be down to join you in a few minutes." Holt's bright blue eyes lit with joy.

"Okay, Mommy!"

She watched as their son ran from the room, then turned back into Remington's outstretched arm.

"We've been summoned," she announced.

"What does a man have to do around here to get a decent kip?" he mumbled the gripe without opening his eyes. Tilting her head back, she flashed a pair of dimples.

"Go back in time and change one's stance on having children?" she deadpanned. His eyes peeked open and he saw the grin on her face. He pursed his lips at her quickly, then closed his eyes again, his hand now lazily stroking her side.

"Can't do that I'm afraid," he disregarded the idea, "I'm rather fond of the little tarachopoioús." She sat up, preparing to get out of bed, then looked back over her shoulder at him.

"That's the second time I've heard that word today in reference to our children. What does it mean, exactly?" He turned to look at her as he threw back the covers and climbed from bed.

"Troublemakers," he emphasized with a lift of his brows.

After lunch, Remington dismissed Zach for the rest of the day, while expressing the Steele's gratitude for his assistance over the weekend. An afternoon of beach play was followed by a light dinner and family evening. While Remington assisted Livvie in writing out her birthday party invitations, Lina cozied up with her goddaughter and nephew in the screening room, leaving Laura more or less to her own devices – which wasn't exactly a bad thing, in her estimation. After printing out the files Murphy had sent them the day prior, she gathered their file on Roselli and her notes from two nights previous. She sat at the opposite end of the dining table from Remington and Livvie, pouring over the information found, taking mental note of things to share with Remington when big ears weren't around to hear, and scrawling pertinent facts on the legal pad, every once in a while offering Livvie a name of someone she'd thus far overlooked.

The invitations had taken longer than Remington had anticipated, nine-thirty quickly approaching when Livvie had written out the last of the invitations. Holt had succumbed to his dreams some hour before, and was already upstairs, tucked into bed by Lina's hand. Thankfully, the children had all been bathed after their afternoon in the sun, so bedroom had been reduced by at least half an hour. Still, with their bedtime routine of prayers, story and song, it would be past ten before the girls were prepared for the land of nod and should Sophie wake again this evening – as she had the night prior for Lina – a full night's sleep would once again not be in the cards.

 _Unacceptable._

Thus, once the girls were in their nightgowns, Remington made an executive decision:

"Let's say we just plan ahead, hmmmm? Off to our bed, Little Ladies Steele, and, a thaisce, take that excuse of a cat with you. Just make sure he sleeps on Mommy's side of bed, hmmm?" The girls took off for the master suite – cat in tow – giggling: They'd never slept the entire night in Mommy and Da's bed before. A pair of raised brows, a tapping foot and a hand on hip from Laura said she was waiting for an explanation: It was a hard and fast rule in the Steele household that the children slept in their own beds unless illness or fear brought them to their parents in the middle of the night. He raised both hands, palms facing her. "Now, Laura—" he began.

"We have rules, Mr. Steele," she reminded coolly, as she swept past him into the hall. Actually, it wasn't a _bad_ idea, she acknowledged – not that she'd ever admit as much to him. Give him an inch on one rule and he'd take a mile on another.

"If we don't get some sleep tonight, we'll be napping on the office couch by noon," he protested.

"You speak as though that is a rarity for you," she snorted. He glowered at her back for posterity's sake, but she wasn't wrong.

Sophie had, indeed, been awakened by her dreams, but had also been soothed quickly back to sleep given Laura's proximity. A solid eight hours sleep, for the most part, but still he silently cursed the Laura's alarm clock when the voices of Bud and Norm were emitted from the speakers. It was long, ongoing battle between the two of them, she blithely ignoring his complaints, and he complaining often and loudly.

"Lau-ra," he complained again, "I'm sure whatever crime it is I've committed does not justify eight years of cruel and unusual punishment."

Punching off the alarm, she'd rolled out of bed with a light laugh, a clear indication the torture would continue on.

Now, Laura reached for her coffee, and cradling the mug between both hands, she leaned back in her desk chair and let out a long, heavy breath while kicking up her feet on the desk corner, in an affect much like her husband's.

She had a suspicion on where Roselli was heading. The Colonel had done an admirable job collecting information on his son and a little bit of hunting and pecking on her computer this morning had allowed her to draw enough associations that she felt some confidence in the conclusion she'd come to. Taking a sip of her coffee, she sat the mug on her desk, opting to thrum her fingers against the wood top instead.

If she was right, she couldn't… wouldn't… send Murph in alone. He'd need backup, just in case Roselli caught wind of someone on his tail. She was, of course, the most logical choice. She, after all, knew Roselli, whereas Murphy had only come into acquaintance with the man on paper… and as an observer of the wreckage Roselli left in his wake. She was also the most experienced detective in the Agency, with the added bonus that she and Murphy had once been partners.

And hell would freeze over before Remington Steele would even consider the idea. She tried to work up a good fury over that – the idea that he believed he could 'put his foot down.' The gall, the temerity, the _misogyny_ … Heaving a heavy sigh, she gave up the effort. He could put his foot down, and she'd honor it because the only way he'd be joining Murphy was over her dead body. Goose-gander. It was argument, if waged, that she couldn't win.

Mildred wasn't even a consideration as neither of them would allow that. Which meant the job would fall to Zach. But was he ready for it? She had a hard time not still thinking of him as a twenty-two-year-old, wet behind the ears kid, fresh out of UCLA. He'd just turned thirty a few weeks before, and had been working with them for nearly eight years now. His instincts were strong and he often picked up on details others missed. He was quick on his feet, and had trained in self-defense. He could handle a gun, although she hoped it wouldn't come to that…

But was he ready?

Picking up her cup of coffee, she stood to pace the length of her office.

If she were honest with herself, it was as much about sharing the contents of that file with Zach as it was about his preparedness. That file that told the tale – the cold, dry, factual tale - of the Steele's interactions with Roselli from their impromptu elopement necessitated by the INS to Anna's Roselli inspired attack upon them. She lifted her free hand so a pair of fingers could knead at her brow. That file painted an ugly picture of herself, at least in her eyes, although Remington would disagree, taking the bulk of the blame upon himself. But he could claim responsibility all he wished and it didn't make it true. It was she who'd invited Roselli into their lives to incite Remington's jealousy; it had been she who'd insisted they aid the man, even after he'd blackmailed Remington and had sent him to nearly certain death at Picadilly Station; and it was she who'd encouraged the man's attentions, unwittingly allowing him to use her against his actual target – Remington.

And if that weren't bad enough, that file chronicled in vivid color that she was wholly unable to defend herself when a larger, more cunning assailant turned his eye on her – in spite of her claims… and belief… that she could.

By handing Zach that file, they would be making him privy to details that only their inner circle were aware of… and most of those people wouldn't have judged her decisions, her actions, from a professional perspective whereas Zach would.

The intercom buzzing drew her from her thoughts and she strode across her office, picked up the receiver and punched the button for the intercom.

"Yes, Bernice?"

"Sister Margaret Mary from Good Shepard is on line one for you." Laura's eyes slanted in the direction of Remington's office and a devious smile lifted her lips.

"Actually, I believe that call is for Mr. Steele," she drawled, tipping off Bernice who laughed. "Transfer it to him, and when he tries to foist the call off on me, tell him I'm on another line and it sounds like it might be an emergency." Avoid a call from the school that might be intended to rope the Steele's into volunteering or donating he would but if he believed something might be wrong with one of the children? Not a chance.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Bernice replied with laughter seeping through her words.

"He's not on my bad side. He just needs to understand there is a reason I take care of certain things and he doesn't. This party will serve as a very valuable reminder as to why that is."

"A painful one," Bernice laughed again. "I'm on it."

With that Bernice disconnected the line and Laura returned to her desk. It wouldn't do to have Remington walking into her office to find her twiddling her thumbs. She tapped in the numbers of an extension.

"Kiara, can you come see me, please?"

Less than a minute later there was a knock on her office door before it swung open.

"Kiara, come in and have a seat," Laura invited. Kiara had been with the Agency for four years, and while she'd become an invaluable asset to the security arm, she was second only to Mildred when it came to research. Laura did her best to overlook that Kiara was yet another UCLA graduate on their payroll… and did her best to forget that it was Kiara's brother, Rudy, who'd been killed when a bomb meant for Remington literally blew the doors off of the Rossmore flat. "I have a project I need you to handle," she informed the young woman now. "What does your schedule look like right now?"

"It's not too bad," Kiara replied, her eyes lit with curiosity over this 'project'. It wasn't often the Steele's pulled them from their regular duties. "We have a final inspection of the system we finished installing on Friday, then Mr. Steele has asked us to conduct a security profile on all the Arnoch Supermarkets."

"Mr. Steele can assist Brandon on all of that," Laura decided. "Right now, I need your focus solely on this." She handed a sheet of paper across the desk to the ebony skinned woman. Kiara took the slip of paper then quickly scanned the list of names found there.

"The first part of the list are the names of former associates of Anthony Roselli - some with current known locations, some not heard from in years. I want to know every details of their lives: Family, schools attended, club memberships, criminal records, favored charities, where they've traveled, any assets they have domestically and abroad, anywhere they have lived – By the time you're done, I want us to know more about them than they do about themselves. Many of the people on that list are linked to the military and covert organizations, so may have traveled worldwide."

"No problem," Kiara replied with confidence.

"The second part of the list are all of Roselli's aliases that have been identified to date." Laura gave the young associate a pointed look. "It would be my guess that when you delve into the first list, you'll find more. In the meantime, I want you to do as thorough a background on these identities as you'll do on his associate.s And lastly, where I want you to start first: That is all the information we know on Roselli's cabin located between Potrero Grande and Guasimas off of Mexico 98. There is no address, it sits in the remote countryside and is only accessible by foot or helicopter. I don't imagine there are many like it in that area. I want you to find out who the current owner of record is, as well as do a title search then a full background on any prior owners."

"I'll get started right—" Kiara paused when a knock on the private door to Laura's office sounded, and then said door swung open.

"Uh, Laura—" Remington began, sticking his head through the opening, then noted Kiara sitting there. "Sorry," he apologized immediately. "If you wouldn't mind a word after—" Laura waved a hand at him, indicating he should enter.

"Come on in. Kiara and I are just about done," she informed him. "She's going be tied up for the immediate future, so you'll need to partner up with Brandon on the system installation tests for—" She looked to Kiara for help.

"Garden Glens," Kiara offered. Garden Glens was an upper-class catering retirement community where a recent spate of thefts had been taking place, the perpetrator or perpetrator stealing from patient as well as the meds room.

"Garden Glens," Laura repeated, "Then with the security profiles of Arnoch Supermarkets."

"Ah, Emery. It will be good to see the old boy again," Remington grinned as he walked towards Laura's desk then perched a hip on it, positioning himself at an angle to address both women. "And what will our Ms. Warmack be doing?" Laura picked up her pen then leaned back in her chair.

"Research." She slid him a sideway glance – a challenge. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer she carry on with her duties and you—" He held a hand aloft, stopping her.

"No, no. It will give Emery and I a bit of time to catch up. Haven't seen him in three or four years now. Livvie wasn't much more than a toddler."

"Just _try_ …" she emphasized the word "…not to give Mrs. Arnoch another heart attack." She looked to Kiara. "When first we met Mr. Arnoch, Mr. Steele saw fit to drag him along on an investigation. By the end of it, Mr. Arnoch was so enamored with our line of work, that he announced he was selling his supermarket chain to become a detective."

"Emery Arnoch?" Kiara laughed. "He has to be seventy-five, at least."

"You can see Mrs. Arnoch's concern," Laura noted drily. "Let Brandon know you're on the bench for now," she directed, effectively dismissing the young woman. Kiara, taking the signal, stood.

"I'll let him know right now. He's planning on leaving at eleven for Garden Glens, Mr. Steele." Remington glanced at his watch. It might interfere with his plans to sweep Laura away for lunch, but other than that, his desk was clear.

"Fine, fine." He stood as Kiara opened the door, rubbing the back of his neck. Laura played with the pen in her hand, wondering how long she could toy with him.

"It appears you and I might be busier than usual this week, Mr. Steele." He turned to look at her, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Huh?" Realization dawned. "Oh, the Arnoch business. I'm sure it won't take hardly—"

"That's not what I mean. Celek's taking personal time to take care of a few matters for his new employ, so he won't be in the office after tomorrow."

"Ah, so you'll have to step in and fill his shoes, hmmm?" he assumed, already losing interest. His hand moved from his neck to his mouth, so he could worry a nail. Surely Sister Margaret Mary had been jesting. If not, Laura would prattle on endlessly in his ear about—

"Mr. Steele!" She managed to wipe the smirk off her face right before he turned to face her. That he'd turned to chewing his thumbnail revealed he was growing more anxious. _Good._

"Huh? What?" _Damn. Caught napping on her now._

"Did you hear what I said?" _Double damn._ He hadn't the foggiest idea of what she may have been going on about.

"Uh—" She forced a scowl onto her face.

" _What_ is the matter with you?" she demanded to know, taking to her feet and planting her fists on her hips. _As if I don't know._

"Huh?" He gathered his wits. "Stray thought. You were saying?" Instead of being pacified, her frown deepened.

"I was saying…" she enunciated each word, "I think it's time we send Murphy some backup. If I'm right about where Roselli is heading, I don't want Murph going in alone, even if it is only to get the lay of the land." He turned from distracted to fully attentive in the tick of a second hand, his mood prepared to turn thunderous.

"No!" he boomed, making it clear that was his final word on the matter. "You'll be going no where in the vicinity of that mad man, even if it means locking you in the safe room until you come to your bloody senses!" Her lips thinned, quite for real, irritated by both his tone and the imperiousness of his decree, despite having expected exactly that had she even suggested it.

"I meant Zach," she responded coolly, crisply. That made him pause for thought.

"You know what Roselli's capable of. Do you believe young Burton is at all prepared for that?" She held up her hands and dropped them, admitting she was questioning the choice as well.

"I don't know," she admitted, "But I'd hope so. Not only is he no longer that wet behind the ears kid we hired, we've also just promoted him. Beyond that, what choice do we have?" she asked, frustration peppering her voice. "Clearly, you're not going to let me go, and I'm…" she pressed a hand to her heart "…not letting you…" she extended her arm toward him, then leaned forward and rested her weight against palms pressed to desktop "…And neither of us would allow Mildred to go, even if she were up to it. So who does that leave?" She flopped down in her chair, then added with practical resignation, "If he's going to take a larger role in the Agency, he's going to have to learn how to be in these situations." She wasn't wrong, and as long as her pretty little bum was staying right here…

"Go with God's speed, young Burton," he decreed with a sweep of his arm.

"There's just one more thing," she hesitated to add.

"Of course, there is," he replied as if the qualification was an every day occurrence – which, of course, it so often was.

"Zach won't be anywhere close to prepared for what he might be getting himself into unless he knows it all," she pointed out with a calm she didn't feel. "We're going to have to give him the file." She watched him closely. "All of it – with the exception of the more revealing photos of me, of course." Concerned flickered in his eyes. He had no issue with it for himself, personally, but she, on the other hand, viewed it as a indictment of her character and capabilities.

"Are you certain?" She lifted and dropped her hands.

"It's what has to be done." She glanced at her watch. "He and Celek should be back at lunch time. I'll speak to him then. Which brings us back to where we began." He reared back his head with a questioning look on his face.

"It does?" She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

"More work for both of us, remember?" Well, now that she'd mentioned it, he did. "You and I will have to cover investigations ourselves until Celek returns, maybe even longer." He waved a hand as though the idea was inconsequential.

"All part of a day's work, Laura," he joked, then lifted a brow at her, "Although, I must confess, the day does seem to move faster when we're doggedly pursuing a suspect, chasing clues—"

"Sneaking off to the movies while I do all the legwork?" she added, drily.

"We all have our roles, Laura," he grinned, unrepentant. She picked up her pen and tapped it on the table. It was time to get this conversation back on track.

"You know," she drew out the words, "I was thinking it might be nice to have a barbeque Sunday afternoon – a small gathering of friends and family in honor of Livvie's birthday, without the chaos of her party? The forecast says it's supposed to be a beautiful day – maybe the last really good day before cooler weather starts to set in."

"You know you never have to convince me to throw a party," he agreed, easily. "How many were you thinking?"

"Thomas and Catherine, of course. Lina. Mia and Miri. Ronnie and Maxie – I think it would be easier on them and more enjoyable than Chuck E. Cheese. Mildred and Rusty." She developed a sudden interest in her nails on one hand. "Frances, Donald and the children." _Ahhh, so she's ready to extend the olive branch._

"Easy enough." He paced the room a pair of times, unconsciously tugging at his ear. He forced a laugh past his lips. "You know, Laura, I've heard some schools actually require a child to invite the entire class if invitations are passed out in school. Some nonsense about not wishing to hurt other children's feel—" _Bingo._ She feigned shock and sat up straight, abruptly.

"What have you done?!" As if she didn't know. She had to hand it to him, though, he wasn't going to 'fess up easily.

"—ings. Preposterous. Hurt feelings," he snorted, pacing again. Maybe if he just kept speaking he'd be able to convince her of the absurdity of it all. "We'll be raising a generation of namby-pamby's forever tethered to their mum's apron strings. One might even go so far as to say, being excluded from time-to-time builds character, forcing—"

"Tell me you did _not_ have Livvie pass out invitations in class!" Back to her, he winced and dragged a hand through his hair before facing her.

"How was I to know such a ridiculous rule existed?" he defended.

"Other than it's written in black-and-white, clear as day, in the school handbook? You know, the very handbook you've signed an acknowledgment that you've read at the beginning of the school year each of the last four years?" she challenged.

"Yes, well, who actually reads those things, Laura? They're so boring," he pouted.

"I do!" she countered. He went on the defensive again.

"Then perhaps you should have warned me," he accused. Her lips parted, at the charge, although it hadn't been unexpected.

"Forgive me for trusting that you'd done what you said you had," she replied, sardonically. "I can't believe either Sophie or Livvie didn't say something to you." He grimaced as he recalled the interplay when he'd dropped the children at school that morning.

* * *

" _ **Mommy says we shouldn't do it at school," Livvie worried, peering through the window of the GT350 at the front of the school. He and Laura had taken separate vehicles, so the Explorer could be left in parking at Century Towers for Agency use.**_

" _ **Mommy say it's not polite," Sophie added with conviction. Livvie nodded her agreement.**_

" _ **Because it could hurt someone's feelings," she confirmed.**_

" _ **Don't be ridiculous. Hurt feelings," he scoffed. "People have been invited and not invited to parties since the beginning of time. Feelings don't get hurt." Livvie shook her head emphatically.**_

" _ **Mommy takes us to their houses to give to them," she insisted.**_

" _ **Yes, well, your Mommy likes to make things more complicated than they need to be." He turned in his seat and pointed at the girls, recognizing his gaffe. "Don't tell her I said that." He gave Livvie a smile brimming with confidence. "All will be fine. Just do as I say and give your little friends their invitations."**_

* * *

"Uh, they may have, but to be fair Livvie wasn't at all clear that it was a rule, just that you prefer—"

"Please tell me you're not blaming our six-year-old for this!" she exclaimed, disapproval painting her face. He swallowed hard and licked his lips, the realization his goose was cooked setting in. Still he had to try…

"Well, she's only a week from turning seven. Surely by now she knows—"

"She should ignore what her father tells her to do?" she suggested, sarcastically. He took umbrage at the remark.

"Now, that's not fair," he protested. She plopped her hands on her hips.

"What's not fair is Livvie will receive demerits unless this is rectified!" she retorted.

"Demerits?" he wondered. She threw up her hands in frustration.

"What am I going to do with you?! Too many demerits and she can't participate in the end-of-year Field Day, if not worse. She'll be devastated if she misses it because her father couldn't bother reading a handbook!" The charge left him licking his lips again and drawing a hand through his hair while she shook her head, emphatically. "This afternoon you'll go buy more invitations and you and Livvie will sit down and write out invitations for every child in that class. Am I making myself clear?" He nodded his head rapidly, nervously. "Good!" she sat back down in her chair, and added wearily, "And, for God's sake, don't mention the sleepover or we'll have twenty children spending the night." He nodded his head again. What else could he do? "Do I need to tell you you'll need to reserve another room?"

"As soon as they open," he vowed, prepared to thank to Saints above when there was a knock at Laura's door. "Come in, come in." The door swung open and Brandon poked his head in.

"Ready when you are, Mr. Steele," he announced.

"Let me just grab my coat," Remington replied, hastily retreating through the private door.

"Don't keep Mr. Steele out too late, Brandon," Laura advised loudly enough for Remington to hear in his office. "He's grounded until he does his homework." Brandon chuckled low in his throat. The staff of the Agency were familiar with the boss's penchant for landing himself in hot water.

"A status easily rectified," Remington proclaimed with a confidence he didn't necessarily feel as he stepped back into the office slipping on the jacket to his suit.

"I hope you're right," she replied with a deceptively casual tone, that made him positively anxious. He momentarily considered kissing her goodbye, then decided the wiser course would be give her time to simmer then cool off.

"I'll make it a point to stop and reserve that room," he promised, as he followed Brandon out the door.

When the door closed, Laura leaned back in her chair, kicked her feet up and smiled. So far, all was working exactly according to plan.

* * *

Laura looked up from CashNow file that she'd been working on closing when a knock at her door tore her attention away.

"Come in," she called. The door swung open and Zach stuck his head in.

"Bernice said you needed to see me?" Laura set down her pen and waved him in.

"Come in and have a seat, Zach," she invited.

"What's up?" he wondered, as he took a seat in a chair across from her desk.

"What does your and Celek's schedules look like this week?" she inquired.

"We have a lead on the missing jewelry in the Swanson case, a private dealer. We'll follow up on that this afternoon, then we'll continue interviewing friends and associates of Gretchen Parker to see if we can find a direction to go." Gretchen Parker was the missing nineteen-year-old heiress of Parker Petroleum. A week before, after another confrontation with her father over the young man she'd been seeing, she'd disappeared. Her family had waited a few days, assuming she'd come home, as she'd always done before, then called in reinforcements in the form of the Agency.

"And your passport? Is it in order?" Zach's face lit with anticipation.

"It is. Am I going somewhere that I'll need it?"

"That's up to you, really," she acknowledged. "I'd like to send you to New Jersey to meet up with Murphy Michaels. He's been working locally on the Roselli matter." He laughed aloud.

"Well, despite how some people feel about Jersey, I don't need a passport to go there," he pointed out good naturedly.

"No, you don't," she smiled in return, then grew serious. "But if I'm correct, you will."

"You think he's going to leave the country?" She nodded her head.

"I know Mr. Steele is… concerned… Roselli may show up in LA any day now, but I don't believe that to be the case as our experience with the man has proven otherwise." Dropping her pen on her desk, she stood and walked to the window, propping her shoulder against the frame and rubbing her arms, as the memory of the months after Roselli entered their lives played out in her mind. "He takes his time, first getting into your head, using some of the PsyOps training he learned in the military: An antique vase with a curse, a threat only Mr. Steele would have understood; your daily life played out in photographs, letting you know someone's watching; introducing people into your lives to exploit your weaknesses. He wants his targets vulnerable, distracted by their fears. Hell, even after he abducted me in '86, he wanted to break me before he killed me: Days of being pumped full of psychotropic drugs and endless suggestions that Mr. Steele has been attacked, disfigured…then killed, constantly reminding me it was my fault he was dead." She rubbed briskly at her arms. "Reminding me of what fate awaited me." She turned to look at Zach. "Roselli enjoys the thrill of the hunt as much as he does the kill shot."

"So you think he's going to lay low for a while," he surmised.

"Quite the opposite, actually. He's a sociopath who's been behind bars for eight years. He's a sick man, but intelligent… street smart. Prison is not the place to play the types of games he favors – at least not if you wish to survive very long. And believe me," she laughed, ruefully, "Anthony Roselli is a man with a healthy respect for his own life, even if that doesn't extend to others."

"So you're saying, for lack of a better term, he needs to hunt again." She snapped her fingers and pointed at him.

"Bingo!" she confirmed. "And murdering his father won't be nearly enough after eight years."

"Wait," Zach blurted. "What? He killed his father?"

"Murphy had an appointment to meet with the Colonel late Friday afternoon," Laura filled the detective in. "Based on lack of rigor, Murphy found him within two hours of being murdered. A safe had been emptied out, and we all assumed whatever was in that safe was the reason the Colonel was targeted, but I think we were wrong. The police report shows there was a small fortune in jewelry left untouched, that could be easily turned into quick cash on the streets and not only did the Colonel have nearly five hundred dollars in his wallet that had been left untouched, but there was close to another thousand in an old coffee tin in the kitchen, so it doesn't appear he was after money. If he suspected the Colonel had been investigating him, then it would make no sense to leave the Colonel's computer behind. No, I think he wasn't sure if he'd have another opportunity to settle the score with his father if he didn't do it now – after all, the Colonel wasn't a young man."

"Which makes you think he's leaving the country," Zach speculated with less confidence now than the time before.

"I do, but even more specifically, I think he's going to the one place to which he has a connection that does not have an extradition treaty with the United States or Mexico."

"Where is that?" he asked, leaning back in the chair and crossing a leg over his knee. He couldn't deny he found all this fascinating.

"I'd like to take a step back for a moment, first, to give you a little background, if you don't mind."

"Okay," he shrugged in easy agreement.

"The Colonel and his wife, Florence, adopted Roselli at birth – biologically he is their nephew on his mother's side," Laura explained. "His birthmother, Amelia, was… involved… with several different men of limited acquaintance when she conceived. Young, broke and alienated from her family, she asked her sister and the Colonel – who were childless - to adopt him in exchange for money for a fresh start. Amelia, herself, was conceived during an extramarital affair and her father, Leslie Albert Norris, decided he and his wife would raise her." Zach scratched his head with a finger.

"That's a… complicated… family tree," he commented.

"And a complicated family to accompany that tree. Amelia's father and stepmother disowned her when she was a teen and the Colonel and his wife made it a condition of the adoption that Amelia never reveal who she was to Roselli," she confirmed. "Anyway, after Roselli was arrested in Greece, the Colonel took it upon himself to identify any of his son's other misdeeds and began a rather impressive background investigation of his own on his Roselli, paying particular attention to anyone who died or went missing during the time period when they made Roselli's acquaintance. One association stands out above all the others, at least in my eyes."

"Which is?" he questioned.

"While Roselli was stationed in Vietnam, he frequently took his personal leave in Saigon, where he became involved with a married woman by the name of Dao Thi Hoa." She lifted a hand to finger her throat. "Six months after they began their affair, Hoa disappeared into thin air. The police suspected her husband, Dao Van Lu, killed her after discovering her betrayal. Three months later, he also disappeared and this time it was assumed Lu either thought he'd soon be arrested or he was fleeing the humiliation of being first cuckolded then being suspected in her disappearance." She gave Zach a pointed look. "This morning I did a little digging into the address were Hoa and Lu lived in what's now Ho Chi Minh City: A week after Lu's disappearance, the apartment they owned was re-titled to one Leslie Albert Norris."

"And let me guess: Vietnam has no extradition treaty with the United States or Mexico," Zach concluded.

"You got it," she verified. "Bernice has flagged all flight manifests for Roselli's known aliases. I suspect we'll see one of them boarding a flight out of the country any day now, the only question is from where. In the meantime, when he makes a move, I don't want Murphy out there alone. He needs a partner."

"If you're asking me to go—" Laura held up a hand to stop him.

"Before you volunteer, I want you to know exactly what you might come up against and there's only one way I can think of to do that." Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, she picked up the file. "This is our private file on Roselli. As of right now, only four people are aware of the entirety of its contents: Mr. Steele, Murphy, Mildred and myself. It includes details – very private details – about our lives that we should never have to share with anyone else. We chose not to involve the police in Mexico in order to protect that privacy. Marcos called in favors from some very high-ranking officials in Greece to insure the police report there was whitewashed to protect that same privacy. I'm sure some of the information in here will be… shocking… to you, such as discovering Mr. Steele and I were married twice—" Zach's eyebrows flew up.

"You and Mr. Steele were divorced?" After watching the Steele's together over the last seven years, the thought was… flabbergasting. He immediately apologized, "I'm sorry. Go on."

"No, it's fine," she sighed. "I'm sure you'll have many more questions after reading everything. To answer this one: No, we've never been divorced. In May of '86, seven weeks before our wedding ceremony in Greece, Mr. Steele and I… eloped… I guess you'd say. The INS was attempting to deport him, and we saw no other way to stop it. In order to make the deadline, we were forced to be creative: Our blood tests and license were forged." Zach laughed aloud at this bit of information. He'd seen some of Mr. Steele's handiwork during his years of service to the Agency and the man was a master forger.

"And I bet no one had a clue." She gave him a rueful look.

"That would be a losing bet," she advised. "We were found out."

"Which is why you remarried in Greece," he finished. She shook her head slowly.

"No," she drew out the word. "We married in Greece for no other reason than we _wanted_ to be married. We'd been involved for four years when we married on that fishing trawler to appease the INS and—" He barked a shocked laugh.

"Fishing trawler?" This was too much. He couldn't envision the Steele's ever stepping foot on a fishing trawler, let alone marrying on one. For a moment, her eyes danced with amusement.

"A fishing trawler," she confirmed, "And me covered in mud from head-to-toe thanks to a case we'd been working that day." She grew serious again. "Believe me when I say, there was nothing matrimonial about the entire thing and the events of that day nearly ended in us going our separate ways, permanently." He scratched his head again, returning to disbelief.

"You and Mr. Steele?"

"It was a very difficult time for us and Roselli is an expert at exploiting people's… vulnerabilities, I guess you could say," she sighed. "We were so caught up in the fall out in our personal relationship after our impromptu vows, that we missed signs about the man that normally wouldn't have slipped past us and we opened ourselves up to being easily manipulated by him in the process. Frankly, I'm more than a little bit embarrassed. Those days and the days after I was kidnapped were not my finest hour, by any stretch of the imagination and what you read in there is bound to affect your opinion of me on some level. That alone should express, not only how difficult it is for Mr. Steele and I to share this, but why we'd like your word you'll never speak a word to anyone other than Mr. Steele, Murphy and I about what you learn from this file."

"You have it," he promised. With a nod, she forced herself to hand over the file, finding doing so even more difficult than she'd imagined.

"Take your time. If Celek needs someone to partner up with him this afternoon to meet with that dealer, you can let him know I'm available to do so." She opened a drawer in her desk and removed her purse, finding she suddenly needed to get away from the office for a spell. "I'm going to step out for a few minutes to pick up lunch, but I have my cellular phone with me if I'm needed."

"I'll get back to you shortly," Zach assured as he stood to follow her towards the door. He missed the slight stiffening of her back. And how would he look at her when he did?

"Take your time. We don't want you rushing your decision." With those final words, she turned right towards the reception area while Zach turned left towards his office.

She paused in the lobby only long enough to direct Bernice…

"Call Fred and tell him I need him to pick me up and take me home so I can get the Jeep. I'll be waiting downstairs."

Something in Laura's eyes when she'd looked at her kept Bernice from making a crack remark about the directive issued. Instead, she simply picked up the phone and dialed, her concerned gaze resting on Laura's departing back until she disappeared from sight…


	40. Chapter 36: Decisions Made

Chapter 36: A Decision Made

That evening, the Steele family was finally able to settle into a bit of normalcy. Sophie had been brimming full of stories of Auntie Mildred helping in the classroom and not a mention had been made of Tank, Dozer or the 'Bad Man'. The children helped Remington and Thomas prepare dinner, and while it cooked Catherine worked with the girls on their homework at the kitchen table, quizzing them first on their new, weekly spelling list then assisting when needed as they finished two spelling work book pages and their math homework while Holt entertained himself with his Legos on the family room floor. Laura had claimed the need to work late, but in reality had left shortly after Remington, driving to Venice Beach for a long, solitary run. As much as she enjoyed Remington accompanying her on a run – if for no other reason than the amusement his obvious dislike of the sport brought her – on this night she needed the time to clear hear head. She'd arrived home shortly before dinner was served, and with one sweep of his eyes over her, she knew Remington had accurately assessed she hadn't been at work after all. For his part, that quick look at her was enough for him to surmise she'd needed some time alone with her thoughts, and he wouldn't begrudge her that.

After dinner, Thomas and Catherine had bid their adieus, claiming a long day and the need for of a bit of rest – nothing more than politely acknowledging the Remington and Laura might enjoy a quiet evening to themselves.

Which, of course, they sorely needed. Thus, after the children were tucked into bed and the baby monitor was turned on, they escaped with a bottle of crisp Spanish wine to the terrace, where he set a low fire in the fireplace…

Then he watched as, instead of joining him, she paced slowly along the terrace wall, sipping her wine. Determined to wait her out, he kicked up his feet, propping them on the low slung table in front of the outdoor couch he sat upon, and leaned back into the cushions. For a while he was content to enjoy his wine…

Then her…

Then the view…

Then her, again…

Then…

 _Sod it._

"Sophie seemed in much finer spirits this evening," he 'mulled' aloud, with a swirl of the wine in his glass. Laura, back to him, smiled over her shoulder at him.

"It seems Mildred was just the medicine she needed," she agreed. A crinkle appeared between her brows and she turned to face him, leaning her backside against the wall. "Speaking of Mildred: Has she said anything recently that made you wonder if she's considering retirement?" His brow shot up in surprise.

"Not that I can say," he replied cautiously. The idea of the Agency without Mildred was a concept he couldn't wrap his head around. "Has she to you?" She lifted a hand to finger her throat as she strolled towards the table intent on refilling her wine.

"Not directly, but there was a time where we would have to force her to go home—"

"And stay there," he interjected with a smile. How many times had she interrupted them of an evening over something to do with a case? Laura laughed softly.

"Yes," she drew out the word with humor. "But that's not been the case for sometime now. She leaves at the end of the work day," she ticked off, as she stood with her refreshed glass of wine, "She takes frequent vacations, which she never used to do—"

"I should hope so," he interjected as he got to his feet, "She's not been married terribly long, and Rusty is left to loose ends most of the day."

"That man has never met a loose end," she laughed. "There's always a project he's working on or somewhere that he's volunteering," she pointed out, then conceded, "I do see your point, but that certainly doesn't explain her passing off work to Marvin. I mean, this is the same woman that once lay down the law: Her or him."

* * *

 _ **"I'm sorry, Miss Holt, but if that pipsqueak's gonna be here, I'm gonna-"**_

* * *

"Yes, but now that their roles are so clearly defined, they're quite fond of one another. I'd even go so far as to say she's mentoring him so he carry on in her ab-" He stopped, surprised by where the thought had taken him. She nodded slowly in understanding and took a sip of her wine, leaning her backside against the wall again. Without thinking about it, he mimicked her position.

"And now she's taking more time to play 'room mother'."

"Ah, Laura, I think you're reading a little too much into things," he advised. "It's no secret the woman favors Sophie, so it should be of no surprise she'd wish to jump to her aid." She laughed aloud at the last statement.

"Your father favors Livvie, Catherine favors Sophie and Mildred favors Holt," she corrected. "How could she not? Watching Holt growing up is like being given glimpses of you as you might have been when you were a child." She'd caught Mildred on more than one occasion looking back and forth between Remington and Holt with tears in her eyes. It was a feeling she was all too familiar with. "And we all know she favors 'The Boss' over everyone else." He feigned embarrassment, shifting on his feet and shoving his free hand in his pocket.

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"The hell you don't," she snorted. A companionable silence fell between them for several ticks of a second hand, before she spoke again. "Mildred's going to take the girls to dance tomorrow evening if you could meet her there and take them to soccer practice."

"Meeting with the accountant?" he wondered, taking a sip of his wine.

"No. My father." She pushed away from the wall to slowly pace towards the end of the terrace.

"Ah, more questions then, eh?" he inquired casually. She shook her head, but didn't answer. Taking a sip of his wine, he waited her out again. This time it wasn't long before she spoke.

"This morning on the beach, I asked Jessica if she could wish for anything what that might be," she recalled in a distant voice. "There was a time – years even – when my answer to that question would have been for my father to come home." Her eyes flickered to him. "It would have been the happiest day of my life… at least up until that point."

"And now?" he prompted gently. Was she at last ready to share what had been going on in that complicated mind of hers?

"And now, I'm no longer that naïve sixteen-year-old girl," she replied, strolling away while clinking her fingernails against her glass and considering the situation at hand. His eyes remained on her as she traversed the length of the terrace, trying to discern her mood. It was rare occasion that he couldn't read her, and that he couldn't now he found discomfiting. "These last few weeks," she continued thoughtfully, "I haven't been able to help but think about the people we choose to surround ourselves with - some with pasts as… colorful… as your own," she slanted a glance towards him, saw the easy shrug of acknowledgment that meant he'd taken no insult, "And some who are as straight-laced as they come. But they all share a few key attributes in common: They're devoted to their families, they can be trusted and they're loyal," she ticked off, then looked to him for confirmation.

"Can't say I disagree."

"For the most part – with Frances and Mother being the exceptions – we can be who we are and speak freely around all of them, knowing our lives and anything said will be held in the strictest confidence," she assessed, pausing at the western most wall, to look down at the waves rolling to shore below while enjoying another sip of wine, trying to assemble her jumbled thoughts. "All you have to do is look at these past few days to know they'd do anything for us, just as we'd do for them: Murph's in New Jersey trying to locate Roselli for us and Mildred and Rusty are volunteering in the children's classrooms to keep an eye out for trouble. Hell, even Zach has jumped right in, helping here this weekend and now flying across the country to join up with Murph."

"Mmm, young Burton has become quite the asset," he noted, then couldn't resist adding, "You know, in spite of being a UCLA grad." She snorted softly and offered him a smile as he'd hoped, then was off on her feet again.

"I honestly believe he thought I'd throw myself into his arms with tears of joy flowing down my face," she announced with an edge to her voice, "That I'd turn to the children and introduce him as their grandfather. It's been twenty-two years. _Twenty-two!_ " It took a split second to follow she'd changed the trajectory of the conversation back to her father, but rather than disturbing him, he found himself on familiar ground as the first vestiges of her formidable temper appeared. "And since? One excuse after another as to why he had 'no choice' but to take off! Mother was difficult during her pregnancy with me. She was depressed for months after my birth, so much so my Grandmother was at the house every day taking care of Frances and I, then after they lost my brother it was even worse." Remington's jaw slackened at that news. "He was forced to have affairs because Mother wouldn't release him from—" It was one surprise too many, and he found himself blurting out…

"He _told_ you that?" Her brisk pace halted and she scowled, trying to discern what he'd said, then waved a hand at the air.

"I already knew," she dismissed, resuming her pacing, "Even if I didn't want to admit it to myself. There were too many nights when he didn't come home until nearly dawn, too many business trips; and, I'd heard enough arguments between them over the years about his… indiscretions. What does it say about a man's character that he cheats on a woman and then tells her it's her fault?" she demanded to know, then when he remained silent, followed with "Well?"

"I suppose—"

"I mean," she cut him off immediately continuing with her rant, "If anyone knows how difficult Mother can be to live with it's me, but to humiliate her and then blame her for it?! Yet do you know what he has never once done? Do you?" He knew it would be a futile effort but gave responding the old college try.

"Off hand, I'd—"

"He's never once apologized!" she threw up her hands and growled her frustration. "God!" He watched her pace furiously back-and-forth across the length of the terrace a pair of times, then for another pair of passes as her temper cooled off. "I know we prefer a nice, juicy murder, but—"

"There you go, confusing your pronouns again, love." Her feet stopped and her head swiveled in his direction. _Bloody hell, did I say that aloud?_

"You don't?" She sounded genuinely stunned. He licked his lips then opened and closed his mouth a pair of times, before lifting a hand and giving her a bashful grin.

"Well, you have to admit those nice, juicy murders of yours tend to be accompanied by one or two individuals determined to perforate my hide," he slapped his hand against his chest and rubbed it, "While I prefer to keep said hide fully intact." A dimple flashed in one cheek.

"Well, it is a very nice hide."

"Care to admire one another's hides later?" he asked with a suggestive leer. She gave him a lusty little look in answer.

"I might just have to take you up on that." Then she was off on her feet again. "My point is, setting our… higher profile… cases aside, starting with Little Crusoe we've worked cases involving children a good many times, and there's always a common theme: Maria was willing to risk her father-in-law killing her to keep Little Crusoe safe; Walter Gallen sent his kids on a cross-country trip in an RV to protect them...Hell, even Alexis Vandermeer was willing to risk criminal charges to protect Claude and she couldn't stand him." A hand lifted and dropped again. "Yet, my father? I can't even get a 'Sorry for disappearing for twenty-two years' out of the man."

She blew out a long, slow breath and sank down, heavily, on the couch, then flopped back against the cushions, drawing her hands over her face. He joined her, sitting his wine glass on the table then tapping her on the hip.

"C'mon, let's have it."

They repositioned themselves on the couch, so she was sitting between his legs. Sensitive fingers ferreted out the first knot in her shoulders drawing a sharp intake of breath, released it eliciting a hum from her, then moved to the next. By the third knot he was frowning and chastising himself right proper for not having realized how much tension she'd been carrying… for how long? Days? Weeks? A month? He wasn't normally so remiss in providing her some relief, knowing as he did that she tended to internalize her worries.

"It's as if I'm two different people where my father is concerned," she murmured. An interesting proposition that left him tilting his head and directing a curious look at the back of hers.

"Oh? How so?"

"I'm not even sure if I know how to explain," she sighed.

"Try," he encouraged, his hands searching just beneath her shoulders, then settling in to work.

"I don't know," she frowned, seeking the right words. "There's the sixteen-year-old me who's reliving those days after he left. _She's_ hurt, confused… terrified. Everything's closing in on me and I can feel the fringes of a panic attack just waiting to happen. Then there's the thirty-eight-year-old me who is _furious…"_ she gesticulated with her hands "…the man had the gall not only to show up after twenty-two years, but violated the sanctity of our home in the process while stirring up all those old feelings!" She huffed a breath and fell silent again. He bussed the top of her head.

"I'm somewhat familiar, myself, with that particular cacophony of emotions," he noted. Reaching back she touched her fingertips to his hand, acknowledging those days after Thomas revealed himself to be not only alive but Remington's father, despite Thomas's prior denial.

"But you were never apathetic towards Thomas, whereas I am with my father," she shared. His brows lifted in surprise. He'd attributed to her a wide array of possible responses to her father's return, but nowhere amongst those feelings was anything even vaguely resembling apathy. "He's a virtual stranger to me. He looks like my father and sounds like my father, but I feel no connection to him, whatsoever. I'm not the same person I was twenty-two years ago. My responsibilities, my priorities… even how I view the world… all of it has changed. The truth of the matter is, I don't trust him… and I don't just mean not to leave again."

"What else? Hmmmm?" he encouraged.

"He came back for all the wrong reasons, I suppose," she speculated, thoughtfully. She'd been chewing on this particular thought for days. "He's here because his son wants a family, and it occurred to my father he just happened to have a ready made one back in Los Angeles where he left them decades ago. So, what happens when John starts a family of his own? Does my father just pull another disappearing act then? Who knows?" she asked with exasperation and a toss of her hands in the air. "You and I have, with great deliberation, created a home for our children where they'll always know security. We've also taken a great deal of care to surround them with people who will always be here for them. You and I both know the importance of that stability – it was a lesson drilled into us by our childhoods, yours more so than mine." She shook her head. "I simply don't trust him to take care of their hearts as we would." She shifted away from his hands, then reached for one of them, as she leaned her back against his front. Automatically, he slid his free arm around her waist. "I don't trust him to take care of _you_."

"Me?" he asked not bothering to hide his surprise. Her mind never ceased to amaze him. "Why ever is that?"

"We already have to be mindful about what we say around Mother and Frances, but on the rare occasion that we've slipped it's been easy enough to convince them they misheard or misconstrued what was said. My father won't be mollified so easily." He laughed low in his throat.

"Oh, I don't know that we've convinced Abigail. She can be a wily one. I suspect she knows a good deal more than she lets on given the time she spent with Daniel," he speculated. Laura frowned at the thought. Did her mother know more than she as letting on? The thought was intriguing… and troublesome. She shook it off for later.

"I come by my curiosity naturally," she shrugged. "Most people don't question the party line that you grew up believing you were Remington Steele, orphan, only to discover your father was very much alive and had been searching for you for decades. There's a certain… Dickens-esque romanticism… about it ,that both appeals to people and makes them not wish to question the details because to do so would be to spoil the real-life fairy tale they've brushed up against. When my father starts hearing people refer to you as Mick or Xenos - or, God forbid, Michael or Dougie – he's going to ask questions, much as I would. It's one thing when the names spring up from your childhood, quite another to be known by other names as an adult."

"Mmmm," he hummed, in sober agreement. "Still, I'm sure between the two of us we could come up with a plausible explanation. One of my undercover roles when I was an operative for the CIA perhaps."

"Good answer," she complimented, then spoiled the self-congratulations before they could begin, adding, "Unless you consider that now you've invited him to delve into that CIA past. But that's not the point. The point is: We'll always have to be on guard, prepared to think on our feet. _I don't want that_ ," she emphasized, quietly. "Tomorrow night I'm meeting with him to tell him goodbye," she finished firmly. He tightened the arm wrapped around her, pressing her to him in a hug.

"Are you sure that's what you want, love?"

"I am," she answered with a nod of quiet confidence. "It's time for me to take a page from your own book, Mr. Steele, and stop living in the past. Whoever it was that walked out that door twenty-two years ago wasn't the father I knew and loved. He's still there in the past. We may share DNA but the man who showed up here a month ago is a stranger to me, and I'm not in the habit of inviting strangers into my life…" Easing herself from his arms, she turned to look at him "…or, more importantly, our lives." She stood abruptly and tugged off her shirt. He watched avidly, bemused… and infinitely aroused when his eyes found she'd abandoned the notion of a bra that evening. His eyes traveled over all those delightful freckles then upwards to her face, a smile beginning to play on his lips.

"Uh, Laura," he said in a lighthearted tone, "As much as I'm enjoying this delightful display, I'd rather my sister and _the nanny_ not see my wife in her all together."

"Ah, but Lina is spending the night at Jacoby's…" she snapped her fingers and pointed at him "- I didn't tell you that – and Mia will be gone until well after midnight. She's with her study group, cramming for fall mid-terms." She shimmied out of her shorts. "Now, I seem to recall there was a discussion on the table." A wide grin split his face.

"Something about admiring one another's hides, wasn't it?" he teased, standing and pulling his sweatshirt over his head as he gave chase…

* * *

Remington leaned down and cupping Laura's neck in his hand, kissed her slowly and tenderly while she drew her fingertips down his perspiration slickened back, sending goosebumps over his skin. Artless touches and glancing kisses in the pool that evolved into lingering, heady foreplay had chased them back to the couch where they'd made love of the slow, savoring variety that inevitably left him seeking frequent physical contact with her in the aftermath.

"How it is you can still make me feel like a besotted lad in the midst of his first case of puppy love?" he murmured as his lips left hers so he might sample the flavor of the tender skin of her neck.

"A condition this lass is not unfamiliar with herself," she smiled, drawing a hand through his hair. Lifting his head, his blue eyes twinkled down at her.

"A sentiment that does a man's heart good to hear." He leaned in for another kiss.

"Go home, Jacoby!" Lina's voice, raised in anger, pierced the quiet night.

Remington's lips froze against Laura's. Tipping back his head, he peered over the armrest of the couch.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. His sister and their staff attorney weren't but twenty yards away in his estimation, and once they arrived at Lina's door that distance would be cut by half – and him and Laura with nary a stitch of clothing between them.

"Lina, hold on a minute," Jacoby insisted.

"Can you reach my shirt and shorts?" Laura whispered from beneath Remington. Lowering his head, he swiveled it to look at the ground nearby.

"Go home, Jacoby!" Lina repeated, uninterested in anything he had to say.

"I believe so," Remington whispered back to Laura, shimmying slightly downwards and reaching for her shirt.

"You are the most stubborn, ill-tempered—" Remington winced on the other man's behalf. _Bad choice, mate._ He handed Laura her shirt, then dropped to the ground and fingered the edge of his sweatshirt, trying to draw it fully within reach.

"Then you should wish to leave, given I'm such poor company," Lina snapped. Remington heard the jangle of her keys as she pulled them from her purse. His fingers snatched the edge of his shirt and he yanked it to him to pull it on.

"My shorts," Laura hissed. He held up a hand.

"I know, I know," he returned sotto-voiced.

"Damn it, Lina! It was dinner with an old friend. There's nothing to be jealous—" Remington grimaced again. _Really putting your foot in it, old sport._

"Jealous! Jealous?!" Lina scoffed. "What have I to be envious of? So, you went on your little date-" she made a brushing motion with her hand.

"It's wasn't a date!" Jacoby retorted. Remington stretched for Laura's shorts and then tossed them to her.

"I can't reach mine without being seen," he whispered to her.

"Where are they?" she whispered back as she wriggled into her shorts.

"But if you believe I will sit home while you have your fun, you are quite mistaken," Lina continued as though Jacoby had never spoken. "I've more than my share of admirers who'd like nothing more than for me to accept their invitation…" Jacoby saw red at the threat.

"Just a few inches past the end," Remington answered Laura. She slid from the couch to the ground.

"You watch. I'll get them. Let me know when the coast is clear." She crawled on all fours to the opposite end of the couch and peered around the corner at the shorts.

"You do that," Jacoby shot back. "And while you're at it, I think it's time I accept a couple invitations of my own!" Lina turned to the door and shoved her key into the lock.

"Good. Then we are in agreement!" Lina retorted, swinging the door to her guest house open with every intention of storming inside while imparting a few chosen words before she slammed the door in the man's face.

"Go-go-go-go-go," Remington whispered.

Lina's head swiveled around having heard something, her eyes sweeping over the terrace. Movement near the couch caught her eye and she scanned the terrace, shrugging it off as imagination when she saw nothing.

"In perfect agreement!" Jacoby snapped, drawing Lina's narrowed eyes back to him. Behind the couch, Remington shook his hand in dismay for the other man. _You've done it now, mate. Wait for it…_

"A purely professional relationship, it is, then," Lina snapped back. "Good night, Mr. Elliot." Jacoby's eyes widened with confusion.

"Wait… what—" Then found the door slammed in his face. _And there you have it…_

Laura handed Remington his shorts, flinching as the sound reverberated across the terrace. Shoving his feet through the legs, he worked them on. When Jacoby's growl of irritation was followed by the sound of footsteps drawing away from them, they exchanged looks.

"Wait-wait-wait-wait," Remington warned when Laura made to stand up. "Let's just give it a minute in case she decides to go after him and give him another piece of her mind." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm not sure what's worse: Getting caught by my sister in the proverbial act—" Laura's laughter trickled through the air.

"Technically, it would have been after the 'proverbial act'," she corrected.

"Before, after, during… the visual's all the same," he countered, drawing more laughter from her.

"Who'd have thought the Lothario who once paraded a bevy of bimbos through his bed each week is little more than a prude in wolf's clothing?" she mused. He scowled at her.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name with disapproval.

"What?! It's true," she defended, getting up. "You said 'what's worse'?" she reminded as she walked across the terrace to retrieve their undergarments.

"Or listening to Jacoby dig his own grave," he finished, shoving himself off the ground then settling back down on the couch. "I could have offered him a bit of sound of advice, before he climbed in and pulled the dirt over himself."

"The voice of experience speaking?" she teased. "I seem to recall you doing your own fair share of grave digging, although you favored ploys and gambits as your weapon of demise." Returning to where Remington was seated, Laura picked up her partially filled glass of wine. "I'm in the mood for a long, hot bath," she announced, walking towards the house, then looked back over her shoulder at him. "There's room for two if you're interested."

Picking up his own glass along with the bottle of wine, he stood to follow. Well, the man who'd been craving time alone with his wife, was being handed it on a silver platter this evening, and he wasn't about to start turning it down now….

* * *

Later that night when the lights were turned out, slivers of moonlight illuminated the white sheers that billowed under the gentle breeze that blew in through the open French doors. For many long minutes they lay in silence, as she traced figures with her fingertips over his chest, and he absently stroked her hip, both of their eyes closed as they allowed themselves to begin succumbing to sleep.

"Do you think Abigail had post-partum, Laura?" he asked softly, as though not to break the peaceful spell that had been weaved around them. Her fingers briefly paused, then began their lazy journey again.

"Yes, I think she did."

"It might go a long way towards explaining your relationship with her," he speculated.

"You might be right," she acknowledged. She'd been mulling that same thought since her last meeting with her father. A tick of the minute hand went by before either spoke again.

"Laura?"

"Hmmm?"

"It occurs to me that… ummmm…" he stumbled, as he carefully approached with might be a mindfield, "…previous… ummmm… to your father's return, on the rare occasion you spoke of him, you normally referenced him as 'Dad' or 'Daddy', but since his… uh… surprise appearance, you've referred to him singularly as 'my father'. Have you noticed that?" he wondered. Her brow furrowed then relaxed.

"I had really thought about it, honestly, but you may be right," she shrugged. "I feel even more disconnected from him than I do from Mother. Whoever Jack Holt is now, biology may make him my father, but he's not my Dad. The title reflects that distance, I suppose."

"Mmmm, I understand what you mean. When Father first announced not only his resurrection but that he'd lied to me, the appellation of Father reflected the role he was entitled to by my birth and I called him such out of respect, but it held neither meaning to me nor was meant to reflect any real connection." Her fingers had stilled again and she'd tipped back her head to look at him.

"And when that changed, you never considered calling him something else?" He peeked down through his lashes at her then closed his eyes again.

"I mulled the idea for quite some time actually," he shared, "But nothing seemed to fit. Your 'Dad' is far too American and your Daddy?" A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Far too juvenile." She shoved a hand against his side, but smiling, lay her head against his shoulder again. "Da is far too Irish, and whenever I hear 'Papa' my mind automatically goes to Marcos, and certainly father and he are nothing at all alike." He laughed softly. "Pops reminds me of one of those awful shows you are so fond of on the telly…" She felt the shrug of his other shoulder. "In the end, Father seemed the only appropriate fit, a name not only befitting his place in society, but I imagine the name I'd have been taught to refer to him by had things… gone differently."

"You never told me," she accused, quietly. She found it bothered her that he'd been wrestling such a monumental decision and he hadn't said anything.

"You never asked," was his simple answer. Well what could she say to _that?_

"Fair enough." Silence fell between them again and when she stopped her distracted scrawling against his chest and sought out his hand with hers, he knew sleep for her was near. Tangling his fingers with hers, he shifted slightly beneath her, nestling his head fully in his pillow.

"Mr. Steele?"

"Hmmm."

"Did you remember to put the classroom's invitations into Livvie's satchel for school tomorrow?" His eyes flew open and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "You _did_ remember to do the invitations with Livvie… didn't you?" A self-satisfied smile twitched at the corners of her mouth when she felt him stiffen beneath her. " _Mr. Steele?"_ Heaving a sigh, he patted her on the hip, then slipped out from under her and climbed out of bed. "Oh, Mr. Steele," she heaved a disappointed sigh for good measure.

What could he say? Drawing on his robe he left the bedroom. _A man should at least be given credit for remembering to buy the bloody things._ At the stairwell, he doubled back to the master bedroom.

"Uh, Laura—"

"There's a class list in the right middle drawer of my desk," she provided. Then with a bit of the devil in her, yawned loudly and added, "I'll keep the bed warm for you." The comment drew a glower.

"Somehow, Laura, that's of little consolation at the moment," he groused, then disappeared down the hallway.

Only when she was certain he was descending the stairs did she set free the quiet laugh she'd been suppressing. With a very real yawn this time, she turned onto her side, tugged up the sheet and closed her eyes.


	41. Chapter 37: Endings

Chapter 37: Endings

Laura pulled the Jeep into the parking lot of the Sycamore inn in San Bernadino at six-thirty-eight and cut the engine. She was a little late, but that wasn't surprising given the rush hour traffic she'd faced as she'd wended her way eastward out of LA. Her father had been more than willing to meet in LA again, but given the news she was about to impart, she felt it… well, a little rude, honestly, to make him drive to LA. She snorted softly. Her mother would be so proud to know she exercised good manners even when telling her father there was no place for him in her life.

She'd expected to be nervous, she admitted to herself as she swung down out of the Jeep, but she wasn't. Indicative that she'd made the right decision for her and her family? Possibly. She had a hunch, however, that calm came from her recognition that the man she was meeting with this evening was no more than a stranger to her. Her Dad had long ago been lost to her, forever.

Striding into the restaurant, her eyes panned over the dining room. With a hand signal to the hostess approaching to seat her, she indicated her party was already waiting. Jack stood when she neared, watching for something over her shoulder. She didn't miss the disappointment on his face, and fluidly slipped into her waiting chair when he leaned in to buss her cheek in greeting. His lips found air and his brows a frown. He took a seat across from her.

"It's good to see you again so soon, Champ."

"Please don't call me that," she requested, in a conversational tone. "It's a name that belongs to another time and place." His face fell and he didn't bother quashing the sigh that passed his lips.

"I'm sorry. I suppose I was hoping when you insisted on coming to San Bernadino that you'd decided we could put the past to rest and we could move forward. I even allowed myself to hope your husband and children would be accompanying you." Only then did she realize they were seated on one end of a table meant for eight.

"Good evening. I'm Rory and I'll be your server tonight," a sandy haired waiter greeted. "What can I get you to drink this evening?"

"Whatever you have cold on tap will be fine by me," Jack offered.

"Just water for me," Laura requested, as she took the leather bound menu when the young man handed it to her. She automatically set it to the side, then spoke after the server had left the table. "No, Remington and the children won't be coming, but I am here to 'put the past to rest.'" A wide smile split his face.

"I'm so glad to hear that and John will be thrilled to learn—" She held up a hand to stop him from going any further.

"I'm here to say goodbye." She delivered the news swiftly, as one might tear off a bandage. He sputtered with disbelief.

"Good—" he stumbled over the word, the shook it off. "No. I don't believe that, Laura. You're still upset, but with a little time and—"

"I'm not going to change my mind," she cut him off, calmly but firmly. "I'm only here to explain why, as a courtesy, nothing more."

They fell silent again when the waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Give us a few minutes," Jack ordered in an irritable tone. Her lips thinned at the dismissive tone. He was allowed to be unhappy with her decision, but he didn't have the right to take it out on someone just trying to do their jobs. "Think about what you're doing, Laura," he admonished. "How will your children feel when they find out one day that you kept their grandfather out of their lives?" Her temper exploded.

"Don't you dare use my children to manipulate me," she hissed. "My children already have _two_ grandfathers who they believe hung the moon and the stars in the sky just for them. They have been completely devoted to the children since the day they were born and travel halfway around the world whenever they can, just to spend time with them. They don't need another grandfather, especially one who might not be around in a year!" He retreated from the heat of her fury.

"I told you, I'm back to stay, Laura," he took on a pleading tone. "I'm not going anywhere." She reached deep to find the calm that she'd arrived with, and released a slow breath before speaking again.

"I learned a long time ago to judge a man not by his words but his deeds," she replied with icy calm, "And your deeds say otherwise."

"For God's sake, Laura, it's been twenty-two years. People learn from their mistakes."

"I'm not referring to the fact that you abandoned us… abandoned me," she corrected, "But to both your actions over the last twenty-two years, generally and in the last month, specifically. When I look at the last twenty-two years, all I see is a man who knew his child was in crisis and chose to put his wants ahead of what she needed. I see a man who chose another man's sons over his own daughter, and then, when things became too difficult, abandoned them as well."

"I'm still here for John. Shouldn't that weigh in my favor?" he argued. "Shouldn't that be proof that I've changed?"

"I considered that," she admitted honestly. "I do believe you love John – more than you ever loved Frances… even me. But you only severed your ties with two sets of children after your marriages to their mothers went south. Would you do to John what you did to the rest of us if your relationship with Brenda fell apart?" She lifted and dropped her hands. "I honestly don't know, and that's part of the problem."

"I don't see how the success or failure of my marriage to Brenda would have any affect on you," he rebutted.

"You've made no secret of the fact that you only contacted Frances and I because it was important to John to have siblings. If—"

"That's not what I said," he cut her off to contradict. "I said I may never have found the courage to contact you if not for John." She raised her brows and held her hands out, palms up.

"It's the same thing," she replied, shocked that he couldn't see that. "'If not for John.' So what if you haven't changed? If you keep to your pattern, should your marriage to Brenda end, then it will be best for John if you are out of his life, right? Then what does that mean for Frances and I, our families? If not for John, will you just walk away again? I can't trust that won't be the case."

"It won't be," he protested. "I give you my word." She paused to take a drink of water before speaking again.

"At first glance, many people believe Remington and I are mismatched," she shrugged her shoulders, "And they're correct, at least to some degree. I'm pragmatic and he's a dreamer; I'm frugal and he's a shameless spendthrift; I'm order take-in and he's a gourmet chef…" she snorted softly, a smile whispering over her lips, "…I read every word of a contract before signing it and he just scrawls his name wherever you point, because in his eyes he has better things to do. What those people who only see our differences don't realize is this: That's all surface. What binds us together can't be seen: We're kindred spirits. We've both been abandoned and betrayed by the very person or people who were supposed to keep us safe and to love us unconditionally. A good deal of who we are as adults, what we believe and the rules we live by were forged by the lessons our childhoods taught us. Family, for Remington and I, comes first and foremost. We—"

"Then I don't see the problem," he cut in. "I am your father, for God's sake."

"That's not what I mean!" she shot back, then with a grimace averted her face, and reined in her emotions. "Before we'd even conceived our first child, Remington and I agreed that above all else, our friendship, our partnership, _our marriage_ had to take precedence over everything else, understanding—"

"Are you trying to tell me your husband wants you to cut me out of your life?" Jack interrupted.

"No!" she bit out, irritated by another interruption. She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, speaking in low voice when she continued. "Remington knows me better than anyone and even more importantly, he trusts my judgment implicitly. He knew this was a decision I had to make on my own. Even now, I have no idea how he feels about any of this and, frankly, he won't volunteer his opinion unless I ask." She huffed out a breath and shook her head. "Now, as I was saying, Remington and I understood our marriage would determine the type of home our child, or children, would grow up in. We want them to look back at their childhoods one day and remember a home filled with love, warmth, security and acceptance. That begins with us and how they view our relationship. Are we happy? Do we argue all the time? Are we cold to one another or disconnected from each other? Our relationship determines how the children will see everything else. And of second most importance? The people we invite into our family, our inner circle. We surround ourselves with people who we describe with words like trust, dependability, and loyalty. Can I apply those words to you?"

"Laura, I did what I did a long time ago—"

"Let me finish," she ground out. "Are you dependable? I think that I haven't seen or heard from you in twenty-two years is answer enough to that question. Are you loyal? You abandoned your wife and children, so I think we know the answer to that." Displeased, he glowered at her. "Can I trust you? And with that question, we come back to what your deeds have shown." He leaned forward and spoke in a harsh whisper.

"And as I've said repeatedly, I've changed." She threw up her hands and let the fall.

"And as I've said repeatedly, I don't know if I can…" She stopped abruptly with a shake of her head. "No, I _know_ I can't trust that," she corrected emphatically. "Let's take John, Remington and the children out of the equation for a minute. You _chose_ to eliminate me from your life! What kind of father _chooses_ to walk out of his child's life and never looks back? I have spent most of _my life_ judging everyone around me based on _your_ actions and, God knows, for twelve years I've made Remington pay for your choices. You'd think there would be an expiration date to my fears, but there's not. His fortieth birthday – time for a midlife crisis, right? Is this when he leaves? Our seventh anniversary and the seven-year-itch. Now? That same old fear will be there on my fortieth birthday – I'm middle aged, will he be looking around for a newer model? Our tenth anniversary, his fiftieth birthday, my fiftieth birthday, the children's sixteenth birthdays! I might know in my head that he isn't going anywhere – and I do know that," she stated emphatically, "But fear by its very nature is irrational. Yet even then, someone or something had to plant a seed to make that fear take root. And for me, that person was you. After all, if I wasn't enough to make my own father want to stick around, how can I believe I'll ever be enough for anyone else? And now, twenty-two years after you walked away, you show up and tell me I can _trust_ you?"

"All I'm asking you to do is take a chance so I can prove to you I'm not leaving again, Champ," Jack tried again. Seeing the waiter approaching their table again, Laura gave her a head a minute shake, then watched as he veered in another direction.

"Remington's the gambler, not I," she replied, pensively fingering her throat, "But I think with stakes as high as you're wanting to wager, he'd quit the table as well." She sighed and sat back in her seat. "Maybe if you had come back fifteen or twenty years ago, I'd have felt differently – I don't know. For a long time I wanted nothing more than to look up and see you standing in front of me, but now, when I look at you I don't see my Dad, I see a stranger and one, if not for a biological link, I'd have no desire to know." Pushing back her chair, she reached for her purse and stood.

"Laura! Wait!" he insisted, standing as well. "Just take some more time to think—"

"There's nothing more to think about," she cut in. "Twenty-two years ago on the day after my sweet sixteen, you made the choice to walk away," she held out her hands, palms up, "Now, I'm choosing to do the same. Like father, like daughter, isn't that what you always said?" she reminded with a shrug of her shoulders. Drawing herself up to her full height, she squared her shoulders while her chin tipped up a notch. "Please don't contact me again, I won't change my mind. I think the very least that you owe me is to honor my wishes now." She nodded her head, curtly. "Goodbye… Jack."

With those final words, Laura left the restaurant with her head held high.

She'd always carry the scars from the wounds her father had inflicted upon her with his abandonment, but she was no longer that sixteen-year-old girl whose world had been demolished by his departure. She'd graduated from Stanford, had apprenticed with one of the best known agencies in the country, then had started her own business, whose successes and reputation far exceeded that of the agency which had trained her. She'd thrown caution to the wind and had married the blue eyed, raven-haired Irishman who'd once gone wherever the wind next took him. And what had she gotten in return for the most daring act of her life? Three beautiful children, Thomas and Catherine and the entire Androkus clan.

When she was sixteen and her father had walked out, she'd believed she'd lost everything that would ever matter.

Now, at thirty-eight, the woman she'd become understood how foolish that girl had been. She'd lost _some_ thing… alright, maybe a few things: A kind word. Encouragement. A fellow circus connoisseur. A pitching coach. Yes, she'd lost a few things…

But not everything.

Because this, what she had now – twenty-two years after that young girl's life had forever changed – this…

Was everything.

* * *

"Laura," Thomas greeted, clearly surprised by her appearance in the living room. "It was my understanding we shouldn't expect you for at least another hour." Laura pressed a kiss to her father-in-law's cheek, then stepped to Catherine to exchange hugs.

"I finished sooner than I dared to hope," she supplied, while glancing towards the stairs. "Are the children in bed already?"

"They were just preparing to say their prayers no more than two minutes ago," Catherine offered. "If you go straight up, I imagine Remington will be in the midst of telling some wonderful tale as only he can do." Laura's lips lifted in a smile.

"He looks like a novice in comparison to Marcos," she noted, fondly as she moved towards the stairs. She paused on the bottom stair and turned to look back at the couple. "It's a beautiful night. On the way home I was thinking an evening of whist on the terrace while enjoying a good bottle of wine would be just the ticket." Thomas exchanged a look with Catherine.

"We'll prepare everything whilst you say your goodnights to the children," Catherine accepted.

She couldn't stop the smile that lit her face when she stepped into Livvie's room, the chosen sleeping quarters for the girls that evening, for there she found four people crowded onto one small bed. It had taken some creativity on Remington's part to make it happen: He, in a partial sitting position with his back supported by the headboard, a daughter tucked against each of his sides and one young son reclining against him. It was that raven-haired boy that first saw her.

"Mommy!" Remington grunted when he took an elbow in the thigh as Holt propelled himself off his father and scrambled towards his mother. Laura caught her little boy in middle of flight when he launched himself off the bed at her. Next to Remington, Sophie sat up, her face set in a wide smile, joining her mother on the empty bed when she sat.

"You came home before bedtime," Sophie observed, happily, nuzzling herself into Laura's side. Laura smiled gently down at the little strawberry blonde and widened her eyes.

"I promised I'd try," she reminded, hugging Sophie against her side while turning her eyes to her first born. "No welcome home, Livvie Bee?"

"George fell in the ocean," Livvie, still caught up in the story, informed her mother. "Keep reading, Da," she urged. Laura glanced at the book's cover: _Curious George._

"Well, don't I feel like chopped liver? Tossed aside for a misbehaving monkey," Laura teased. Remington gave her a bemused smile accompanied by a pair of lifted brows.

"Two thirds of our fickle offspring abandoned me the moment you entered. What does that make me?"

"More comfortable?" Laura suggested, with a flash of dimples.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaa," Livvie implored, implored patting him on his chest.

"Yes, yes, a stór, the story," he acknowledged, turning his attention back to the book. "Now where were we? Ah, yes…"

' _Man overboard!' the sailors cried…_

Stories finished, song sung, children tucked and goodnight kisses given, the Steele household settled in for the evening. Remington – baby monitor in hand, just in case - joined Laura when she exited Holt's room, pulling the door closed until it remained open only a slit. A pair of fingers beneath her chin tipped her head up, and he searched her face and eyes. He found no telltale signs of strain, but that didn't necessarily mean anything when it came to the woman who was a master at disguising her feelings.

"I'm alright," she assured him with a smile. He hummed while nodding his head, then leaned down to tap a kiss to her lips.

"You arrived home considerably earlier than I expected," he noted, laying a hand on the small of her back as they walked towards the stairs.

"I didn't feel the need to linger," she replied lightly, stepping down the flight of stairs first. "So, I was thinking on the way home—"

"Why is it those words in that tone always means you've conjured up more work for me?" he quipped. She smiled over her shoulder at him.

"In this case, I don't think you'll mind very much. Our prisons here update inmates' files with new photos each year. I was hoping you'd call Marcos and ask if he'd mind using those connections of his to get Roselli's - If, that is, Greece does likewise." He glanced at his watch as they finished their descent and walked towards the kitchen.

"He'll be preparing to leave for the docks soon. Unless you wish to wait another day for your answers, I better ring him up now." In the kitchen he removed wine goblets from the rack of stemware, and handed her two then moved to the other side of the island to open the wine fridge he'd had installed there the prior year. "I've an '89 Chateau Musar I believe you and Catherine will enjoy."

"You aren't having any?" she asked, opening a drawer near the refrigerator and removing a corkscrew.

"Um, no, actually," he replied, reaching into another cabinet. "You know how Father enjoys a cognac of an evening." She identified the cognac as costly from the packaging alone. She turned the box towards her.

"'Louis XIII'," she read aloud. "Sounds expensive. Do I even want to ask how much this set us back?" He gave her an unrepentant grin and stepped close, resting his hand on her back.

"Not nearly as much as your Jeep, and that's all I'll say." He whispered his lips across her cheek, while she rolled her eyes and breathed a laugh. Spendthrift, indeed. He added a pair of snifters to the goblets. "If you can manage this from here," he indicated the drinks and stemware before them, "I'll call Marcos from the office."

"I'm sure I can manage," she agreed.

Her eyes followed until he left the room, then she turned her attention to opening the wine.

* * *

It had been a remarkably pleasant evening, in Remington's estimation: Good company, great wine, enjoyable conversation and bit of friendly competition in the form of the rather sedate game of whist – from which, he must add to the plus column, he and Laura had emerged the triumphant. Her mood had been lighthearted, her state relaxed. She'd bantered, teased and laughed often. For the first hour, maybe hour-and-a-half, he'd watched her for even the slightest sign of distress and found nary a sign. Finally, he, too, had fully relaxed.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning he recognized, even still in the midst of his dreams, that he'd lost her presence. He rolled to his side, seeking her warmth and even as those dreams continued to play out, somewhere in the deepest recesses of mind, he began to understand something was amiss. Unconsciously, he searched for her with a hand. That he came up empty, roused him from his dreams. His mind muddled by sleep, he blinked his bleary eyes at the empty bed next to him.

A muted sound drew his focus. Rolling again, this time in the opposite direction, he took to his feet and followed the sound to the bathroom.

There, his heart stumbled.

Sitting on the floor next to wall was Laura: Arms wrapped around legs drawn up to her chest and forehead resting on her knees, softly sobbing.

His heart stumbled.

On silent feet he crossed the room, then crouched down before her.

"Laura?"

And just like that, he found himself with an armful of Laura. Dropping to his knees to keep them both upright, he wrapped his arms around her, a hand diving into her hair to cup the back of her head as she buried her face in his neck, her sobs wracking her slim frame. Helplessly, he offered her what solace he could, a hand gliding rhythmically up and down her back while he soothed…

"Sh-sh-sh… it's okay Laura… it's okay…"

"I'm here, love… Let it out… I'm here…"

Long minutes passed - that felt to him like an eternity – before she calmed sufficiently to speak.

"I don't know what wrong with me. It's not as though I haven't been without a father for more than half my life." Leaning back she fingered tears away from eyes still determined to leak. He took the opportunity to move them to a slightly more comfortable place, walking a trio of paces on his knees to sink down against the wall. He eased her back until she sat similarly, sliding his arm around her shoulders as she rested her head beneath his shoulders.

"You're doing what you were unable to do all those years ago," he advised, sagely, while pressing his cheek against the top of her head. "You're grieving, Laura." Sniffling, she swiped at her tears again and considered the suggestion and found it had its merit.

"Why couldn't he have been who I once believed him to be?" she asked, voice cracking.

"I don't know… I don't know," he murmured.

"I'm not upset that I won't see him again," she sniffed and swiped. "Really, I'm not. Ever since he showed up that day, I've felt the same as I did after he left: Confused… Scared… That I'd never feel safe again." She reached for the toilet paper dispenser located on the wall across for them. He tapped down her hand and stood up. Handing her first the box of Kleenex off the counter, he next ran a washrag beneath a cool stream of water, wrung it out and folded it in three. He joined her on the floor again.

"This should help to soothe your eyes," he handed her the cloth, shriveling his nose when she exchanged a pair of used Kleenex for the rag. Standing again he dropped the used tissues in the trash, then rinsed his hands as she pressed the folded cloth to her eyes. He dropped down next to her again. "And now?" She sighed heavily.

"Relieved. Angry, mostly with myself." His brows lifted in surprise at the last, but he held his silence. "I've given him years of my life, judging people…" She looked at him from over the top of the cloth "…You… based on his actions." To her horror, she felt the tingling behind her eyes that warned of impending tears. Letting the washcloth fall to her lap, she blinked rapidly, trying to ward them off… and failed. "I want to say I won't give him anymore, but I can't." _Ah_. He understood now the source of her tears. Sliding a hand around her shoulders, he drew her to him again. "In my head I _know_ you're not going anywhere, but here…" She clutched at the pajama shirt she wore in the area near her heart "…I don't want it to happen, it just… does. Every milestone of importance and there they are, those same old fears." He briskly rubbed her upper arm then hugged her to him.

"Do you recall what you said to me after Anna first reappeared in my life?" She snorted through her tears.

"I seem to recall saying a great many things." He laughed a single, silent laugh.

"Mmmmm, that you did," he answered, giving her another squeeze. "But to the point, the evening I told you why the woman haunted me so, you said 'Some people in our lives are meant to never leave us.'" She fingered away her slowing tears.

"I remember," she confirmed quietly.

"Perhaps, the same can be said about the lessons they teach us," he proposed. "Not that I cared for it much at the time, but it was those same fears that made you keep me at arm's length for all those years, giving us the time to figure out what how much we were willing to put on the line to have what we do now." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "As for now? I won't pretend I enjoy your periodic bouts of worry or they don't stir up some childhood lessons of my own," he leaned back to bestow her with a gentle smile, and palmed her cheek when she tipped her head back to look at him "But, that you do says I must still hold a place of great importance in your life."

"You know you do." He lifted a pair of brows at her.

"Enough so that we might continue this conversation somewhere a little more comfortable?" She snickered, as he hoped she might, then took his hand as he rose.

A little cleanup, a couple of splashes of cool water to soothe her eyes, and they were comfortably ensconced in their bed again. Grabbing his hand, she rolled to her side. He followed, wrapping his long, lean frame around her backside. Her fingertips drifted up and down his arm, while they listened to the sounds of the waves hitting the shore below.

"Like father, like daughter," Laura murmured. Remington's eyes popped open.

"Hmmm?" She wriggled around to face him. Troubled brown eyes met his.

"That's what my father used to say: Like father, like daughter," she explained in a near whisper. "What if I am? Will I wake one day and just decide to walk away?" The mere thought was so absurd to him that he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face.

"Don't be absurd, love," he refuted, laughter threading his tone. "You're as likely to walk away as I am to ever fully trod the straight and narrow." His words struck exactly the right chord with her. Her doubts receded, the quiet confidence he adored about her returned to warm her eyes. With a palm to his chest, she urged him to his back – not that it took much convincing – she propped herself on an arm to look down at him. Cupping his jaw in her hand, she leaned in and waited for his eyes to meet hers.

"I love you," she whispered, then touched her lips to his, allowing them to linger, their eyes still joined.

"Ah, Laura," he breathed when their lips parted, while burying a hand in her locks, "Is fear fíor-ádh mé." Her brows drew together. As well as she'd picked up a great number of his endearments, this one was outside of her skill set.

"What's that mean?"

"A more fortunate man there never was," he answered, drawing her down for another kiss. Lifting his head from the pillow, he pressed his lips to her forehead and patted her on the hip. A hint: Crisis averted, it was time for a bit of shut eye. With a breathy snort of laughter, she nuzzled herself against his side, tucking a leg between his and resting a hand against his chest.

He'd nearly fallen to sleep when she spoke again.

"So what you're saying, is me trying to straighten any more of those angles of yours is as useless as chasing my tail?" A crooked grin lifted his lips, though his eyes remained closed.

"Ah, but it's such a lovely tail…" he landed a hearty swat on that particular tail making her yelp with surprise "…to watch. Feel free to carry on."

She did some swatting of her own - although of the much lighter variety and against chest – while rolling her eyes.

She was still smiling when she chased him into her dreams.


	42. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _Thursday, November 3, 1994_

It was near the end of the workday – Laura's, at least - and a busy evening loomed ahead, as it did on each Thursday evening. Laura and Mia would meet at the dance school, where Laura would take charge of her daughters for the evening while Mia would return to Casa Malaga with Holt. After that? Ballet from five until five-forty-five; a quick two-block trip to the gymnastic academy for gymnastics from six until six-fifty; then a thirty minute trip to soccer place, which would run from seven-thirty until eight-thirty. On Thursday evenings, with the addition of soccer practice to the girl's already busy evening, dinner would be on the fly – not that Remington would consider burgers and fries from a drive-thru a meal. Once home, around nine, bedtime routines for two tired, cranky little girls would begin far later than normal and by the time they were tucked snug in their beds it would be close to ten, or even a little after.

While the girls in the Steele household would have a busy, busy evening, the boys in the Steele household would enjoy a relatively sedate time: A little one-on-one time for father and son. Remington would prepare dinner for Holt, Mia and himself, followed by a movie of Holt's choice, then bedtime routines for one – sans the song, of course. It was one thing to sing a little ditty to the children when they were wee babes, quite another to do so before little critics. By the time Laura arrived home with the girls, he'd be enjoying an old movie on the television with a glass of wine or scotch in hand.

A smirk lifted Laura's lips before she opened the door to Remington's office and stepped inside: At least that was how most of his evenings had gone when soccer practice fell on Tuesday or Thursday nights…

But not this one. Livvie's birthday party was less than two days away and her father had missed some pertinent details.

"Ah, Laura, I was just about to come get you." She lifted her brows.

"Oh?"

"Come, have a look," he replied, with a sweep of his arm towards his desktop where several papers were laying out. Crossing the room, she sat her purse on his desk then took the hand he held out and allowed him to ease her down into his lap. It was a concession she'd made long ago - perching on his lap - for the man craved such intimacy with her. She cocked her head slightly to the side as she studied the pictures laid across his desk.

"New security system?" she ventured.

"Newest addition to our real estate portfolio, I hope," he clarified. She leaned forward to take a closer look.

"For us, the foundation or the Agency?"

"Well, it's all for us in the end, isn't it?" he questioned with a smile. "I've had Meredith put out some… feelers… so to speak, and she has a businessman of some prominence who'd like to let the place – For quite the tidy sum, I might add."

"We promised Murphy the Wilshire Penthouse," she reminded, picking up a photograph showing an expansive living room with beam accented cathedral ceilings and a massive fireplace along a wall lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the sunlight to stream in. Setting it down, she picked up the next.

"The penthouse is no place for children, Laura," he said in a tone that suggested she should know this. "They need room to run outside and room to play inside." Her eyes skimmed the image she held: Large backyard, with swing set already in place and a pool.

"Well, this place certainly covers the room to run criteria," she noted, dropping the photo on the table and picking up the next. "How many bedrooms?"

"Five along with three-and-a-half baths, office and a large family room that could act as a playroom," he provided. A smile played on her lips: This was less about their portfolio than assuring Murphy and family were comfortable while they waited for their home to sell. "When Michaels and Sherry find a place, we'll keep this for family to use when they visit," he pressed. "I imagine Zeth and Christos with their broods would appreciate it."

"I imagine so," she replied, her attention focused on the remaining pictures. "It's a nice house," she conceded. "Where is it?"

"Hancock park – within a few blocks of the Rossmore, actually."

"So within fifteen, twenty minutes of Sherry's parents," she mulled. She had two options, the way she saw it: Feign reluctance, in which case he'd plead his case until she 'caved' or she could just admit it wasn't a bad idea. Besides, she already had another game afoot. "Why not?" She tossed up her hands, as though admitting to disagree would be to fight a losing battle. "I'm sure Murphy and Sherry will love it." He grinned his approval.

"I'll ring up Meredith and have her put things in motion, then." He nodded his head towards her purse. "Come to say goodbye?"

"Yes, but first I wanted to find out if you've found Livvie's dog yet," she answered, carefully schooling her expression.

"I never said I was getting her a dog," he protested for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Did you sit down with her and discuss it, as we agreed?" His mouth opened and closed, then his brows drew together.

"Well, no but—"

"Did you ever say to her, 'Livvie, you're not getting a dog'?" His face lifted in triumph.

"As a matter of fact, I did, multiple times, as you well know since you were witness on more than one occasion."

"What I heard you say was 'I never said…' which to Livvie implies you hadn't said no, either." His brows snapped together and his lips parted to argue. "Mr. Steele," she said in a tone that was far too… reasonable… for his tastes, "Did you ever say the words 'you _are not getting_ a dog?'"

"Maybe not precisely in those words…" he answered, resignation already seeping into his tone. He was a smart enough man to recognize when he'd been backed into a corner.

"Well, we're not going to tell her she can't have a dog now," she told him, with finality. "It's all she's spoken of for weeks. It's the only thing she's asked for and we can't argue she is too young to have a pet given Sophie has had Prince Charming since she was four."

"And how, exactly, am I too make this mutt materialize in…" he glanced at his watch, "…forty-seven hours or so? It's not as though I've any contacts in the livestock industry." She shrugged her shoulders as she slipped from his lap.

"I have no idea, but you might want to start with the telephone book." She leaned down and tapped a kiss to his lips, then swept back the unruly lock of hair off his forehead, before standing erect again. "I'll see you tonight." He glowered at her retreating back, until a thought occurred to him.

"Uh, Laura—"

"A Golden Retriever… A male Golden Retriever," she supplied, walking briskly towards the door. She paused when she reached for the door knob. "Incidentally, have you ordered the cake yet?" He swallowed hard and forced a frown back on his face.

"Really, Laura," he scolded good naturedly, "Anyone knows a birthday party's not a birthday party without the cake." She pretended relief.

"You're right," she agreed, "If you hadn't remembered, I'm sure it would be next to impossible to order one now, at least in the size we'll need." She lifted a hand in goodbye. "I'll see you tonight," then disappeared out the door.

Remington drew a nervous hand through his hair as soon as the door closed. _Bloody hell_. How had he forgotten the cake of all things? Gnawing a thumbnail, he waited a pair of minutes – time enough for the lift to carry Laura down to the garage – then picked up his phone and poked at the intercom button.

"Uh, Mrs. Wolf –"

"It's still Hawke. H-A-W-K-E," Bernice reminded, acidly.

"Uh, Mrs. Wolf," he repeated just to irk the woman, "I was wondering if you happen to recall the name of that bakery Laura favors?"

"I guess that depends on what you're talking about," she answered. "She buys croissants and tarts from French sounding bakery a few blocks from here; for bagels she uses that new place that starts with a T or maybe a B; for pastries she—"

"A cake. I've a friend who needs a cake," he informed her, wearily.

"Oh, well that's easy. It's that place her family's used since she was just a kid," she offered, off-handedly.

"The name, Mrs. Wolf?" he asked testily now.

"I don't know," she replied in like tone. "It has a name in it. A person's name or a place's name." He sighed heavily.

"As always, Mrs. Wolf, you've been of infinite aid." He abruptly ended the call.

In the reception area, Bernice turned to give Laura a conspiratorial grin.

"I almost feel bad for the guy," she mused. Laura stood up from where she'd been half-sitting on the edge of the desk.

"In forty-five minutes, call him again and suggest he might want to ask Fred," she instructed. Plucking up her purse from the desk, she waggled her fingers at Bernice then disappeared through the doors.

* * *

Remington stabbed at a number in the phone book and picked up the phone and dialed the number.

"Good afternoon. Remington Steele, here… Yes, yes, the one and the same. I was hoping you'd be so kind as to tell me if my wife, Laura Steele, has purchased a cake from you before… Perhaps under Laura Holt then?...No. Well, then, is it possible to order a cake large enough for sixty or so guests?... Wonderful! We'll need to pick it up Saturday morning… Yes, this Saturday morning." He frowned, as yet another person laughed at him – the seventh thus far and he'd only managed to make it through twenty of the telephone listings. "Yes, I'm sure you wish you could help. Appreciate it." Disconnecting the line, he moved to the next listing while glancing at his watch. It was rapidly _nearing_ five. How many of these establishments would be open after that hour? And there was still the matter of a puppy to contend with.

 _Bloody hell._

"Good afternoon, Remington Steele here. I was hoping you'd be so kind to tell me if my wife, Laura Steele, has purchased a cake from your fine establishment previously… You don't keep customer lists. I see. Well, thank you for your time." He hung up the phone, and moved his finger down to the next bakery in line in the phone book and reached for the receiver.

Then flinched when the buzzer of the intercom sounded unexpectedly. Scowling, he punched the intercom bottom.

"I'm busy at the moment, Mrs. Wolf. Can this wait?" he greeted.

"Well, if you're busy," Bernice drawled. "I just thought I'd remind you since Fred picks up the cakes—"

He promptly disconnected the intercom and reaching for the phone, tapped in Fred's phone number.

"Fred, Steele here… Fine, fine, thanks for asking, mate… I was hoping you might give me a hand and tell me where Mrs. Steele purchases the family birthday cakes… The Beverlywood Bakery?... You're a good man, Fred. Bye bye."

Ten minutes later the cake had been ordered, although at a hefty premium. Still, it was worth every penny if it meant Laura not carping in his ears for God knows how long should Livvie be without a cake for her party.

Now, to find a blasted dog.

* * *

 _Friday, November 4, 1994_

"How would you feel about ordering in tonight?" Laura asked, as she and Remington arrived home after work together. "I'm in the mood for Chinese." She dropped the Jeep's keys into the bowl on the credenza in the front hallway of Casa Malaga, then lay her purse down next to it. He hummed his approval of her suggestion.

"I could do with a little Hunan chicken, now that you mention it."

"I'll order. You can pick it up on your way back." He reared his head back and his brows snapped together, perplexed.

"On my way back? I wasn't aware I was going anywhere," he replied following her down the hallway towards the family room. Unseen, she smirked.

"The girls will need sleeping bags for their sleepover tomorrow evening, and you'd be wise to buy several pillows as well. At least one or two of the girls will forget theirs at home."

"Sleeping bags?" he drawled the words. "Whatever for? So far as I know, there's no camping involved in this sleepover." She gave him an exasperated look over her shoulder.

"Surely you don't expect eight girls to squeeze themselves into two beds."

"Mommy!" Holt called out with excitement when Laura and Remington stepped into the living room. Crossing the room to where he was playing with his cars, she dropped to her knees and opened her arms for him. In an instant, he was hugging her neck.

"Hi, little man," she greeted warmly. "Did you have a good day at school?"

"We made pill-rim hats for the play," he announced while nodding his head.

"Pil-grim," she corrected, sounding out the word for him. "I can't wait to see yours."

Remington had continued on to the dining room where the girls were coloring at the table. Bussing each on the cheek, he nodded to Mia in greeting. Giving Holt a final hug, Laura stood and addressed the girls.

"Girls, put up your crayons and coloring books, then go wash your face and hands," she instructed. "Da's taking you shopping for sleeping bags for your sleepover tomorrow night." Livvie and Sophie cheered at the news and quickly began picking up their coloring supplies.

"Do I get a sleeping bag?" Holt wondered, from across the room. Laura gave it a moments thought then shrugged.

"I don't see why not. Clean up your cars and Mia will help you wash your face and hands too." She turned to speak with their nanny. "We're ordering in Chinese," she shared. "Szechuan Chicken for you?"

"Actually, since you said you wouldn't need me tonight, I have a date," Mia smiled.

"The boy from your Econ class?" Laura inquired, curious. Mia had been speaking of him since nearly the start of the semester. The girl's smile widened.

"Yup."

"Well, it's about time," Laura noted while Remington looked on.

"I know, right?" Mia turned her attention to Holt. "C'mon, Little Man, I'll help you get cleaned up." Whisking up the rest of the cars, she put them in his carry case then took him by the hand and led him from the room.

"The girls will sleep in the playroom and you and I, Mr. Steele, will be doing some camping of our own in the family room," she told Remington as though there had never been a lull in the conversation. He was taken aback by the suggestion.

"Why ever would we do that when we've a perfectly comfortable bed?"

"You'll see," she answered mysteriously. "How are you coming…" she stopped as Livvie and Sophie returned to the room "…On the canine project?" He glanced at the girls, then like her, spoke with care.

"The key element has been located in San Luis Obispo. Fred will drive up in the morning to secure it and Lina has agreed to oversee… the project… until it's time for presentation." It had taken him nearly the entirety of the day to locate the sought after beast, and, much like the cake, it had come at the cost of a premium – In this case, weekend pay for Fred, plus dinner for two at the man's favored steakhouse should he guarantee delivery before they had to depart for the party.

"You preordered a variety of pizzas?" The question drew his brows together again.

"Preorder? How hard can it be to toss a couple pies in the oven?"

"We're not speaking of a 'couple', more like a dozen," she pointed out. "So unless you want a bunch of children complaining they're hungry or asking how long until they eat, I would suggest you call your friend and pre-order." It was one thing to prove a point, another altogether to risk Livvie's party being a disaster. "You'll need three cheese, a cheese with no sauce, four—"

"No sauce? Who eats pizza with no sauce?" he cut in.

"Emma and Emily, because the sauce makes them get spots all over and they have to get a shot," Sophie offered helpfully. Laura snapped her fingers and pointed at Sophie, as answer to that 'why.'

"Then you'll need 4 pepperoni, 2 sausage and 2 ham and pineapple," Laura finished ticking off. The thought drew another woebegone sigh from him.

"I'll call from the car," he promised, resignedly. "Little Ladies Steele, mo mhac, shall we be on our way before Mommy manages to find me more to do?" The girls giggled behind their hands, while Holt held up his arms, requesting to be carried. Remington swooped his son up.

"I'll call in the Chinese," she called at his back and then added, "And don't forget what you'll need for the goody bags." He stopped midstride and turned to face here.

" _Goody bags?_ " he asked with a tinge of disgust in his tone.

"Treats for Livvie's guests. An assortment of candy, little trinkets. Sophie and Livvie can show you."

"So we're not only paying for the rooms, cake and food, but now we're being extorted for toys and candy by a bunch of little ruffians whom are not celebrating a birthday?" he assessed. She shrugged her shoulders dramatically and smiled. "More of this namby-pamby nonsense of some tyke getting their feelings hurt?" Her smile spread and she touched a finger to the side of her nose indicating he'd gotten it.

"Unbelievable," he groused. "We'll be back shortly. Give me thirty minutes then call in the order."

With those final words he and the children departed. She waited a few minutes to assure they were gone then trotted up the stairs towards the master to change into running clothes. May as well enjoy the time alone, after all. She'd call in the takeout when she returned in an hour, because one thing was for certain: Remington might think a half hour, but it would take two.

Then later… Another rude awakening for her husband, she was sure.

* * *

"Laura," Remington called from the front door, "Can you give us a hand?"

Leaning forward and laying her book on the table, Laura untucked her legs from beneath her then stood to render assistance. She padded through the house in her bare feet then outside where a few steps later, Remington dropped a box laden with Chinese food in her arms.

"Much appreciated," he pecked her on the cheek in greeting, "We can manage the rest. Children," he called to them. At the back of the car, he handed each child a sleeping bag and pillow to carry in. Then he picked up the six bags of goody bag ingredients – which were remarkably light – in one hand and gripped two more sleeping bags in his right hand before elbowing closed the trunk lid.

In the house, he dropped the two sleeping bags on a chair in the family room, then deposited his bags on the dining room table while Laura gathered the plates and cutlery they'd need for the meal. Holt, Sophie and Livvie were examining their sleeping bags, drawing Laura's eye. Then she did a double take, spying the additional two. A check on Mr. Steele's side of the column, she credited. He'd linked the pillows to the sleeping bags. No harm giving the man's ego a little stroke… before she knocked it down a few pegs again.

"Why five sleeping bags?" He rubbed his fingers over his chin.

"It would seem to follow if children might forget a pillow, others might forget a sleeping bag, don't you think?"

"Good thinking," she praised, stepping to him to brush her lips against his cheek. He shifted from foot-to-foot, chuffed by the appreciation. "Would you mind putting the bags on the counter? After we eat, I'll give you and Livvie a quick rundown on packing the goody bags."

"Mommy, I got the Turtles," Holt called to her from the living room.

"And me and Livvie told Holt he can have a sleepover with us tonight," Sophie volunteered.

"Yeah," Livvie seconded, nodding her head. "We're all going to sleep on Sophie's floor." The parents exchanged looks.

"As long as the three of you go right to sleep like you normally would," Laura stipulated. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day between Livvie's party and the big sleepover. Now, go wash your hands. It's dinnertime."

Dinner went smoothly, as it normally did, the children sharing the stories of their days and Livvie and Sophie chatting animatedly about what Livvie might expect in the way of gifts the following day… Which, of course, invited a lecture from Laura that it is the presence of her friends that matters, not what she receives from them.

And, when dinner was over, the dishes cleaning in the dishwasher, counters and tables wiped off, Laura gathered up those bags Remington had brought home and set them down on the table again. Unpacking them, she arranged to contents on the table.

"This isn't everything, is it?" she called to him in the kitchen where he was filling them each a glass of wine.

"I've already bought what seemed like half the store," he called back.

"Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to go back and buy the other half." His head preceded him out the doorway.

"What? Why?"

"Well, to begin with," she picked up two packets of cellophane bags directed with balloons and streamers, "There are eight bags in each package and you only bought two."

"I'm afraid I don't see the problem. Precisely sixteen of her little friends accepted their invitations."

"Setting aside Alex, Esme, Bo, Kai, Damerae and Elijah, not to mention Livvie, Sophie and Holt for the moment, you can't count on RSVP's," she explained. "Most of these parents are a decade younger than we are and weren't raised by my mother or Daniel. To them, RSVP is just something scrawled on all invitations and is otherwise meaningless. We're offering two hours of supervision, food, and play. You need to count on at least half of the people who didn't RSVP showing up anyway." She indicated the bags with a flick of her hand. "You'll need three more packages of bags."

"Three!?" he sputtered.

"Then there's the matter of the boys. Can you see Bo getting excited about…" she picked up a pair of items from the table "…Fairy bubbles and tiaras? You need to pick up enough toys and favors for a dozen boys. Take Holt with you, he's close enough in age to the others." A horrifying thought occurred to him then.

"You're speaking of forty-children being at this party, Laura. Forty!" She widened her eyes and pressed a hand to her chest.

"I'm not the one who had Livvie pass invitations out in class," she reminded him. Well, what could he say to that except…

"Holt," he called towards the playroom, "It seems you and I are going shopping…"

* * *

Laura peered over the top of her book when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Remington entered the room carrying a sleeping Holt, walking directly towards the stairs. At nearly ten, it was long past bedtime for the boy who loved his sleep.

"His sleeping bag is already laid out in Sophie's room," she informed Remington in a low voice. "I'll get the bags out of the car." It was the least she could do, given what still lay ahead for the man.

By the time he emerged from upstairs, she'd unpacked each of the bags and had organized their contents: Boy's goody bag contents on one side of the table with a dozen bags laid out next to them, girl's on the other with twenty-eight bags. She'd set up an assembly line, of a sort, and by her calculations it should take one person right at an hour to make the bags, less time with the help of the birthday girl.

She met him halfway up the stairs.

"Everything is ready on the dining room table. You and Livvie should be able to knock it out in no time in the morning. I'm going to say goodnight to Holt then get ready for bed myself." His face fell. He'd been hoping for a bit of alone time this evening, given the house would be packed with children the following evening.

"So early?" She smiled softly and patted his shoulder.

"I suspect a good night's sleep will be hard to come by tomorrow night." It was the second time on the evening that she'd implied pending difficulties.

"Why's that?" The question earned him another pat on the shoulder.

"You'll see." She leaned down and brushed her lips over his, then turned and ascended the stairs while he watched.

A glass of scotch, his screening room and a movie of his choice it was to be then…

* * *

The call had been long in coming. Bernice had gotten a hit on one of Roselli's aliases three days prior: John MacDonald had boarded a plane – on Livvie's birthday, of all days – at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, the connecting flight in Atlanta carrying him to Seoul where another short hop landed him in Ho Chi Minh City. Murphy and Zach had boarded the next fight out of JFK International. The trip would be a grueling one for the men, even the most direct of flights requiring two layovers and a total of twenty-seven hours of travel. They'd arrived at their hotel in Ho Chi Minh late in the evening on their Thursday, and vowed, after a few hours of sleep, that they'd begin reconnaissance post haste.

"Hello?"

"Hey, pal, it's me," Murphy greeted.

"Hey, Murph. Do you have news?" She asked, cutting right to the chase.

"Your nose was right on the money. We've confirmed it's Roselli," he affirmed. "Zach and I are going to meet with the Ho Chi Minh Public Security department this afternoon, but I wouldn't hold your breath. The building super says the local police aren't overly helpful, most notably to the foreigners in the city." She released a puff of breath.

"Of course not."

"I get the feeling from the super of the building, though, that for a few hundred a month, he'd be willing to keep an eye Roselli and report back any suspicious activity," Murphy suggested.

"Given what we're dealing with, I'm sure that could be easily arranged."

"If the police are as uncooperative as the super says, I have an idea in mind. Stephen did a little checking for me and there are three ex-PIs that have been living here as ex-pats for years. We put one on retainer for the super to report anything suspicious to, the PI follows up and we'll be ahead of the game if Roselli makes a move…. At least I hope."

"Do it," she authorized, firmly, then sighed, "And let's hope he stays put. I don't think any of us are up to living under guard and curtailing our routines. When are you flying home?"

"I think we'll wrap things up here no later than Monday, so with a little luck, I'll be stepping on Denver soil on Wednesday."

"I bet Sherry will be thankful for that. I'll have to call and thank her for sparing you for so long." Laura looked up as Remington entered the bedroom. Unable to enjoy his movies with Laura's prediction repeating in his head, he'd finally given up and decide a bit of sleep might be the better course. "Call with any updates. We'll be tied up with Livvie's birthday party from three until five our time tomorrow, but we'll have our cellular phones with us in case there is an emergency."

"We'll talk soon. Give the birthday girl a kiss for Sher and I and let her know we'll have a little something for her when get to LA."

"I will. Bye, Murph." Disconnecting the call, she lay the portable phone in its base.

"Murphy and Zach have confirmed Roselli is in Ho Chi Minh," she told her husband without preamble. He sat down heavily on the side of the bed next to her, first drawing a hand through his hair then scrubbing at his face. She frowned. "I thought you'd be happy."

"Relieved the man's not in the same hemisphere as us, certainly."

"Then what's the matter?!" she asked, lifting and dropping her hands.

"What do you think, Laura?" he returned, standing. "He's still out there, free. For all we know, he's taking a short sabbatical to plan his next move. Are we to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, waiting for him to exact his revenge?"

"No, we use the resources available to us to alert us when he's on the move," she corrected. "Murph believes that for three-hundred a month the super in Roselli's building will keep an eye on the man, and he's currently looking at a trio of American PI's currently living in Ho Chi Minh. We put one on retainer, the super alerts them to anything amiss, and they follow up until we can send someone to take over the trail. The point is: We'll know when he is on the move, and until then, we live our lives worry free." She frowned. "At least where Roselli's concerned." She stood and drew her hands up his chest and resting them on his shoulders, pressed up on her tiptoes to tap a kiss to his lips. "Go. Take your shower. You have an early morning tomorrow…

* * *

 _Saturday, November 5, 1994_

While Remington and the children ran their Saturday morning errands, Laura grabbed a large tote bag from the hall closet and packed the completed goody bags inside. After setting the bag near the front door, she turned to her own Saturday morning duties: Cleaning the house and washing the bedding. By the time the front door to the house opened the faint smell of lemon, Windex, and Lysol mingled with the scent of salt coming off the ocean below. Dusting, polishing, mopping, window cleaning and vacuuming completed in record time, she'd hauled the girls' sleeping bags down to the playroom where the sleep over would take place that night. Now, she sat at the piano working on a piece that had been vexing her for weeks, Botkiewicz's _Prelude Op 6 NO 1._

Quickly hushing the children and holding up a hand, indicating they should remain still, he closed his eyes and savored the music as it washed over them. He thought it a shame she didn't play more often, but once she realized she had company, the keys would invariably fall silent. Not that she was a shy player… more overly critical of herself. Just about the only person whom could get her to perform was Lina, most often as a duet.

"Da! I haf to go!" Holt whined, loudly enough that a hand faltered at the piano and then ceased altogether. The spell had been broken.

"Let me have your bag and go on, then."

He followed Livvie and Sophie to the kitchen, where Laura joined them as they all deposited their bags onto the counter.

"Girls, go upstairs and clean your rooms, please. I've already made your beds," she instructed then added before either could protest, "I'll help Da get the rest of the groceries in." Without a word, Remington followed her back outside.

"Why do I have a sneaking suspicion your sudden offer of assistance does not bode well for me?" he speculated with a dip of his head and a tug at his ear.

"You're going to have to go back out," she informed him. "We're going to need water and food bowls for the dog, puppy pads, puppy food and a bed to start. Tomorrow, Livvie can choose her own collar, leash and toys." He looked at her as though she'd grown a second head.

"Couldn't you have told me this before we left for our errands this morning?" She suppressed her smirk. She could have, but what lesson would that hold?

"And you don't think Livvie would have questioned why you were buying things a puppy needs?" she challenged instead. His shoulders slumped at that. "I'll put away the groceries while you go to the store." She gathered the remaining trio of bags from the trunk, while considering her options: She could wait until he returned to remind him of the cake or she could tell him now. One look at him and she took pity. Unbeknownst to him he had a long day and night ahead. "The cake?" He drew a hand through his hair.

"I'll have Fred run 'round to get it before he picks up Father and Catherine," he decided. She pecked a kiss to his cheek that was quickly returned. "Into the breach once more, then."

Removing his keys from his pocket, he climbed into the GT350 and she watched as the car backed up then turned around and disappeared down the drive, before returning to the house and closing the door behind her.

* * *

Remington scooted backward before yet another set of sticky fingers could brush against him, stepping soundly on Laura's foot, eliciting a yelp from her.

"Hey, watch it!" she protested, balancing carefully as she rubbed the offended foot. The little canvas sneakers she was wearing didn't offer protection from a heel ground into her toes.

"I'm telling you, Laura, this place is a veritable petri dish of disease. Children coughing and sneezing, their noses running, touching everything, spreading their germs far and wide. It's a wonder the board of health doesn't shut it down." Despite her throbbing toes, Laura laughed at his assessment.

"They have an 'A' in sanitation from the Health Department," she reasoned.

"Apparently they've never been here when the bulk of clientele is," he groused, dodging another child who'd just wiped their runny nose on their shirt sleeve. She rolled her eyes in answer.

To say the man was in a bad mood was an understatement, although he was putting on a jolly good front for their guests. Thirty-three children were in attendance – twenty-one of those either unrelated to them or not the children of family friends. Of those twenty-one children, only a handful of the parents had decided to stick around, the majority giving a wave goodbye accompanied by 'We'll be back at five', which, of course, meant they had sixteen children, in addition to their own three, to keep an eye on – and to cater to. There were bathroom runs with children crossing legs or hopping up and down; delivering slices of pizza, only for the child to proclaim 'I don't like…' whatever topping was upon the slice, requiring a return to the table with the food to try a different variety; a multitude of spilled drinks to mop up; and many a tug on pants or shirts from children with a question.

Had it not been for the assistance of their inner core of friends and families, they would have been overwhelmed.

Thankfully, in his eyes, the afternoon was nearing an end. His head was pounding after two-and-a-half hours of listening to bells, whistles, banging, screaming, yelling and crying. _Hers_ was banging because of his incessant whining – most notably about the mouse that seemed determined to irritate Remington further, slinging an arm around his shoulders, patting him on the back or standing in front of him making animated gestures in mute 'conversation.'

When Livvie had – finally – opened her last present…

"Another Barbie, Mommy," she announced with glee, hugging the pink cardboard and plastic box to her chest…

Those parents whom had abandoned their offspring to the care of others, began trickling in. But, much to Remington's consternation, the work was not over. Not having Laura's foresight, he hadn't brought bags, boxes or totes to contain all the presents Livvie had received, allowing only a brief trip or two to the car with the stash of goodies. Instead, it had required the efforts of Remington, Thomas, Donald and Monroe to haul all the gifts to the GT350 where they were stored in the trunk for the trip home while Mildred, Catherine, Lina, Frances, Bernice, Jocelyn and Laura cleaned up the party rooms, filling droves of trashcans with paper plates, cups, paper table cloths, etc.

Then, had come another unanticipated hurdle to overcome: Transferring the sleepover guests back to the house. Three weeks ago, there would have been no problem to find, as the Explorers would have easily accommodated the brood – but no so much the GT350 and Jeep. On this, Laura had taken charge:

"Livvie, Emily, Dominique, Lucy and Mikayla into the limo with Mia; Sophie, Daniella, and Emma, into the Jeep; Holt, it's you and Da." After issuing the directive, she turned to Mildred, "Could you and Rusty drop Catherine and Thomas at the Rossmore?"

"Sure, hon, no problem," Mildred agreed, readily. "We're going to the ballet tonight together anyway. Thanks again for those tickets."

"I saw no need for them to go to waste, and after all you've done for the children these past two weeks, you've more than earned them," Laura returned. She was surprised by the wistful look on their trusted senior investigator's face.

"Rusty and I had a ball," she confessed. "We're gonna miss it." Laura blinked a pair of times, that same niggling thought of whether Mildred was planning on retirement soon returning to the forefront of her mind.

The convoy of vehicles at last pulled into the driveway of Casa Malaga.

 _Salvation_ , Remington decreed to himself silently.

Not really.

Nine screeching and laughing little girls tumbled from the vehicles leaving behind their belongings as they hurdled towards the front door of the house, making a beeline for the playroom, with Laura, Lina and Mia trailing in their wake. Between Remington and Fred, it took seven full trips each to haul into the house Livvie's presents, and the bevy of sleeping bags, pillows, stuffed animals, dolls and overnight bags abandoned by the children when they'd arrived.

Then, at last, life had settled into a rhythm that Remington could truly appreciate: Him, safely hidden away in the kitchen, prepping dinner, while the grill warmed outside. _Ah, blessed silence._

He should have found some wood to knock upon, for it wasn't long before Laura carried a crying Holt, clutching at her neck, into the kitchen. Remington lifted his brows in silent question.

"It's a 'girl's only' sleepover,'" she shared, with a lift of her eyes, heavenward, as she sat the sniffling boy on a barstool at the island. Reaching over, he ruffed his son's head.

"No worries, mo mhac, there will come a day very soon when those same girls will be begging for your company," he reassured.

"Speaking from experience?" Laura asked, drily, to which the only reply was a cheeky grin and waggle of the brows. Her eyes roamed over hamburger patties, hot dogs and corn rolled in aluminum foil. "Emma and Emily are vegetarians," she announced, as though providing the time. The chef's knife he'd been using to turn potatoes into French fries clattered to the island.

"Why should I expect anything else?" he lamented, turning to the fridge and eyeing the contents shelf-by-shelf. "I suppose I could whip up a pasta," he murmured.

"With what sauce? They're allergic to tomatoes, clam sauce runs counter to being vegetarian and they don't like alfredo sauce." She patted him a pair of times. "Try a simple grilled cheese, with the corn and French fries they'll have plenty to eat."

With those words she left the room, leaving Father and son to entertain themselves.

By eight-thirty, dinner was complete – those grilled cheese sandwiches being met with much enthusiasm. As the girls ran around the terrace playing a game of tag, Lina disappeared into her guest house to retrieve Livvie's long awaited present. The squirming ball of fur she carried in her arms caught the attention of two sets of eyes before one little girl – Daniella, Remington wrongly ascribed for it was actually Makayla – squealed…

"It's a puppy!"

The shrieks that followed – including those of the birthday girl – left Remington grimacing in pain, certain his ear drums had just exploded.

He'd never been so thankful for bedtime in his life…

Another short-lived hope.

At eleven-forty-five, he found himself driving through the streets of LA to take home a frightened and tearful Lucy, who could not be solaced and begged for her Mommy…

At two-ten, he was on the road again, with a nearly hysterical Mikayla – the very child who'd dashed his hopes of the ballet – who'd awakened in a strange place and could not be soothed, only silencing when the front door of her home had opened and her father had taken her into his arms.

He'd barely closed his eyes again, when the keening of a puppy found a hand shaking his shoulder.

"The puppy needs to go out," Laura informed him, in a voice that said she was still partly asleep.

"It's three in the morning," he protested with gusto. He received a pat on his shoulder for his troubles and a dismissive…

"Puppies can't tell time, Mr. Steele," before his treacherous wife had dozed off again.

It felt like only minutes after he'd fallen asleep that the house was in full motion again: Seven girls and one boy ready for breakfast then time to play before their guests were picked up at eleven.

And when the last of them had departed, he flumped wearily into the closest chair in the family room and had dropped his head in his hands, while Laura looked on, a bemused smile on her lips.

"Until the girls' coming out, feel free to plan the children's parties from here on out, Laura," he announced, resignedly. Then thought to add, "As long as we never have to patronage that den of horrors again." _Lesson learned_ , she thought with smug self-satisfaction. That bit of superiority lived on for all of two seconds, when what he'd said clicked.

"I'm sorry, until their _what?!_ " He frowned, trying to figure out what had stirred up such a passionate response, then grinned.

"Their coming out? It's when young ladies are presented to socie—"

"I know what a coming out is," she retorted. "Don't you think it's more than a little osten—"

"It's tradition," he cut her off this time.

"Whose tradition?" she countered. "I certainly never came out, and if Daniel could have figured out how to transform you into a debutante I'm sure he would have, but I'm relatively confident that wasn't the case!" Then it clicked. "Thomas," she realized, with a sense of defeat.

"Mmmm," he confirmed. She held up a hand, not wishing to hear anything further on the matter. She had nearly a decade before she had to worry about that particular nightmare.

"We're ready Mommy," Sophie announced, acting as spokesperson for the three Steele children when they stuttered to a stop in the family room.

"We're going out?"

"We're..." she indicated the children and herself with are, "...going to grab lunch and then go to the pet store so Livvie can buy a few things for her puppy. I thought you might enjoy some peace and quiet—" A wide smile split his face. A nice long kip and he'd be as good as new.

"Ah, Laura, you are truly a remarkably—"

"While unpackaging Livvie's presents and putting them all away." His face fell as visions of that nap were shattered, then he leveled her with a disgruntled look.

"—cruel woman," he finished, crossly.

"Let's go, girls, Little Man," Laura instructed, herding the children in the direction of the front door. "Don't forget to walk the puppy," she called to him, with a wave of goodbye thrown his way over her shoulder.

Flopping back in the chair, he stared up at the ceiling and groaned his discontent.

* * *

 _Monday, November 7, 1994_

"Now, don't you worry, Boss, we'll get you healthy in no time," Mildred vowed, jabbing a thermometer into his mouth unceremoniously. He scowled at her and crossed his arms, expressing his displeasure – which Mildred so blithely ignored.

His traitorous wife, standing five feet away with eyes dancing with merriment and a bubble of laughter passing her lips, found a great deal of enjoyment in his predicament. If he had to choose between Laura's Nurse Ratchet and Mildred's smothering mother routine, he'd opt for the former most days, and this was one of them.

"A petri dish of plague and pestilence," he groused around the thermometer in his mouth, giving her his very best pout.

"I don't know why you're looking at me…" she pressed a hand to her chest and widened her eyes "…as though you getting sick was _my fault_." Then to add salt to the wound, she added, "I wouldn't have agreed to have it at Chuck E. Cheese in the first place." He positively glowered at her for that, but was temporarily distracted by Mildred yanking the thermometer from his mouth.

"102.1," she read aloud, then saw the glower on his face, misinterpreting it was meant for her. "Awwww, it'll be fine, you'll see," she pinched his cheek then patted it, drawing a wince from him. "I'll get you a cup of tea and some Tylenol, then you can take a nice long nap." With those final words she hustled off to the kitchen.

"Oh, you wouldn't have, eh?" he challenged, having returned to his sulk. She gave him a smile meant to irk.

"The rooms cost an arm and a leg, the pizza cost is exorbitant and doesn't come close to being the best I've ever tasted," she ticked off on her fingers, "The place is loud, unruly and is filled with sick children whose parents don't care who they infect." He stuck his lip out further, as she sat down next to him and bussed him on the forehead. "There's a reason I have the children's parties here at the house, Remington." She caressed his cheek with a hand then stood.

"Oh, and why is that?" he called at her back, as she began to leave. She turned and looked back at him, giving him the dimpled smile he adored.

"Parties at places like Chuck E. Cheese will only be vaguely remembered when they're older. What Livvie will remember most about her seventh birthday isn't a bunch of children she rarely plays with now and may no longer associate with five years from now, but seeing Laddie for the first time, as Lina carried him across the terrace. When they do look back on their childhoods, I'd like to think their very best memories are the ones they made here - or in Vail, Ireland, England or Greece, with the friends and family who will be with them for a lifetime." She brushed back that lock of hair and cupped his cheek in her palm. "After all, Mr. Steele," she whispered, "Home is where the heart is." Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she stood and waved goodbye. "I'll see you tonight."

Listening as Laura herded their children out the front door for school, he found her assessment to be dead on the money.

After all, it was until a petite, freckled, temperamental, hard-headed private investigator had thoroughly bewitched him that he'd found a place called 'home.'


End file.
